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COUNT TOLSTOI'S WORKS. 


ANNA KARENINA .... 

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$1.25 

CHILDHOOD, BOYHOOD. YOUTH i 
WHAT TO DO j 

• 

• 

1.50 

IVAN ILYITCH . ) 

FAMILY HAPPINESS i * * ' 

• 

• 

1.50 

MY CONFESSION ) 

MY RELIGION .[ ... 

LIFE ... . ) 

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NAPOLEON’S RUSSIAN CAMPAIGN) 
POWER AND LIBERTY . [ 

THE LONG EXILE ) 

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1.50 

THE INVADERS . . . ) 

A RUSSIAN PROPRIETOR i ’ 

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1.50 

SEVASTOPOL . 1 

THE COSSACKS ) 




WAR AND PEACE. 2 vols. . 

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The Complete set in a Box: 




9 vols., 12mo, cloth 

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Tolstoi’s Works in Paper Covers. 

ANNA KARENINA 




WHAT TO DO 




MY RELIGION 



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MY CONFESSION 




IVAN ILYITCH 




Tolstoi Booklets. 




WHERE LOVE IS 




THE TWO PILGRIMS . . . . 




WHAT MEN LIVE BY . . . 




THOMAS Y. CROWELL 

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CHILDHOOD, 

BOYHOOD, 

YOUTH 





ISABEL F. HAPGOOD. 

I 


NEW YORK : 

THOMAS Y. CROWELL & CO. 





Copyright, 1886, 

By THOMAS Y. CROWELL & CO, 


PEEFAOE. 


Count Ltof Nikolaevitch Tolstoi is unquestionably one 
of the most interesting personalities of the period. Any 
thing, therefore, which can add to our knowledge of him as 
a man, cannot fail to be welcome to those who have already 
made his acquaintance through his writings on religion, and 
through those characters in his novels which reflect himself. 
These Memoirs, which in the Russian bear no common title, 
are of particular interest, since they show that many of the 
author’s ideas of thirty years ago were precisely similar to 
those which he is putting in practice to-day in his own per- 
son. There are also points which every one will recognize 
as having been true of himself at the ages herein dealt with. 
It is to be regretted that the original plan has not been car- 
ried out. This comprised a great novel, founded on the rem- 
iniscences and traditions of his family. The first instalment, 
“ Childhood,” was written while he was in the Caucasus, and 
published in 1852 in the “Contemporary’' (Sovremennik) . 
The last, “ Youth,” was written after the conclusion of 
the Crimean war, in 1855 ; “ Boyhood ” having preceded it. 
“Childhood” was one of the first things he wrote; his 
“Cossacks,” which Turgeneff admired extremely, having 
been written about the same time, though it was not printed 
until long afterwards. The most important of his other 
writings are already before the public. 

That the Memoirs reflect the man, and his mental and 
moral youth, there can be no doubt ; but they do not strictly 


iv 


PREFACE. 


conform to facts in other respects, and therefore merit the 
titles which he gave them, novels. The facts, for comparison, 
are as follows : — 

Count Tolstoi was born Aug. 28, 1828, in the village of 
Yasnaya Polyana, his mother’s estate, in the government 
of Tula. His father. Count Nikolai Hitch Tolstoi, was a 
retired colonel, who had taken part in the campaigns of 1812 
and 1813. He was descended, in a direct line, from Count 
Piotr Andreevitch, a companion of Peter the Great. His 
mother was Princess Marya Nikolaevna Volkonskaya, only 
daughter of Prince Nikolai Sergieevitch Volkonsky. His 
mother died in 1830, before he was two years old. His edu- 
cation, as well as that of his three elder brothers, Nikolai, 
Sergiei, and Dmitri, and of his younger sister Marya, was 
undertaken, after the death of his mother, by a distant 
relative of the young Count’s, Tatyana Alexandrovna Yer- 
golskaya, a maiden lady, of whom a very warm memory is 
cherished in the Tolstoi family. She had been brought up, 
being an orphan, in the house of their grandfather. Count 
Ilya Andreevitch Tolstoi. 

In 1837 the Tolstoi family, which had lived without inter- 
mission in the country, went to Moscow, as the eldest son 
was about to enter the university. The children’s tutors at 
that time were a German named Fedor Ivanovitch Rdssel, 
and, after their removal to Moscow, a Frenchman named 
Prosper Saint-Thomas. They seem to be the persons de- 
scribed in these Memoirs. 

Count Lyof Tolstoi received his first lessons in French and 
Russian from Tatyana Alexandrovna Yergolskaya and his 
paternal aunt. Countess Alexandra Ilinitchna Osten-Saken, 
who lived in her brother’s house. In Moscow tutors came 
to the house, in addition to those above mentioned. 

In 1837 the father died suddenly, and his affairs turned 
out to be in great disorder. The Countess of Osten-Saken 
was appointed the guardian of the children. For the sake 


PREFA CE. 


T 


of economy it was decided to leave the two elder children in 
Moscow, and to take the other three, together with Tatyana 
Yergolskaya, to the country. Their education did not pro- 
ceed veiT smoothly. Sometimes they were taught by Ger- 
man tutors, sometimes by Russian seminarists, none of whom 
remained long in the house. 

In 1840 the guardian of the Tolstois, the Countess of 
Osten-Saken, died ; and the guardianship devolved upon an- 
other aunt (also a sister of their father) , Pelagie llinitchna 
Yuschkova, who resided in Kazan with her husband. All 
the young Tolstois were taken to Kazan in 1841 ; and even 
the eldest brother, at his guardian’s request, was transferred 
from the University of Moscow to that of Kazan. The 
younger brothers pursued their preparation for the university 
at Kazan. Count L 3 ’of Nikolaevitch entered the university in 
1843, in the division of Oriental languages, but remained 
only a 3 'ear, and then passed to the department of law. Here 
he remained two j^ears, and was preparing to enter the third 
class when his brothers passed their fiual examinations. But 
when they had finished, and prepared to set out for the coun- 
try, Count Lyof suddenly made up his mind to quit tlie uni- 
versity before the completion of his course. The rector and 
several of the professors endeavored in vain to dissuade him : 
his resolution was taken, and at eighteen he went with his 
brothers to Yasnaj^a Polyana, which had fallen to him in the 
division of his father’s estate. Here he lived, almost with- 
out intermission, until 1851, taking only an occasional peep 
at Peterburg and Moscow. It is not known whether hoi 
wrote any thing during this period, or what fate his efforts 
met with, nor when the desire to write first came to him. 

In 1851 his beloved brother Nikolai, who was serving in 
the Caucasus, came home on leave, and spent some time 
in the country. The desire to be with his beloved brother, and 
to see a new countr}' celebrated by Russian poets, induced 
Count Lyof to quit his estate for the Caucasus. He was so 


vi 


PREFACE. 


much fascinated by the originality of the half-savage life 
there, and the magnificence of nature, that he entered the 
service in 1851, in the Junkers corps, in the same battery 
where his brother served. Here, for the first time, he began 
to write (as far as is known) in the form of a novel ; and 
these Memoirs were the first work which he planned. Be- 
sides these and the “Cossacks,” he also wrote at this time 
“The Incursion” (Nabyeg) and “The Felling of the For- 
est” {Rubka Lyesa) . 

It is probably to the period of this sojourn in the Caucasus 
that the following biographical details, related by the Count 
to a friend now dead, refer ; and they show us some sides 
of the young Count’s character in a strong light. Having 
lost money at cards. Count Lyof gave his property over to 
his brother-in-law, with directions to pay his debts from the 
income, and to allow him onl}^ five hundred rubles a year 
to subsist on. At the same time the Count gave his word 
not to play cards any more. But in the Caucasus he could 
not resist temptation ; he began to play again, lost all he had 
with him, and ran in debt to the extent of five hundred 
rubles silver, for which he gave a note to a certain K. The 
note fell due, but the Count had no money to pay it : he 
dared not write to his brother-in-law, and he was in despair. 
He was living in Tiflis at the time, where he had passed his 
examination as a Junker. He could not sleep at night, and 
tormented himself with thinking what he should do. He 
began to pray from the very depths of his soul, regarding 
his prayer as a test of the power of faith. He prayed as 
young people pray, and went to bed in a state of composure. 
As soon as he was awake in the morning he was handed a 
packet from his brother. The first thing he saw in the 
packet was his note, torn in two. His brother wrote, from 
Tchetchen : “ Sado (my friend, a young Tchetchenetz, and 

a gambler) won your note from Kn , and brought it to me, 

and won’t take any money from my brother on any terms.” 




PREFACE. 


VU 


Count Tolstoi took part in all the expeditions in the Cau- 
casus, enduring all hardships on the same footing as a com- 
mon soldier, and remaining there until 1853. It was here 
that he began to sketch types of the Russian soldier with such 
wonderful power and truth, in his “ Military Tales ” ( Voen- 
nuie Eazskazai) . The Crimean war had barely begun when 
the Count was transferred, at his own request, to the army 
of the Danube, where he took part in the campaign of 1854, 
on the staff of Prince Gortchakoff. He afterwards went to 
Sevastopol, and in Ma}", 1855, was appointed commander of 
a division. After the storming of Sevastopol he was sent to 
Peterburg as a courier ; and it was during this period, be- 
tween 1853 and 1855, that he wrote “Sevastopol in May,’* 
and “ Sevastopol in December.” 

At the close of the campaign, in 1855, Count Tolstoi went 
on the retired list, and lived in Moscow or Peterburg in win- 
ter, and at Yasna 3 "a Pol 3 *ana in summer. This was his most 
fertile literary period. “ Youth,” “ Sevastopol in August,” 
“Two Hussars,” “Three Deaths,” “ Family Happiness,” 
and “ Polikuschka ” were written, and published in maga- 
zines at this time. He was recognized as the equal of 
Turgeneff, Gontcharoff, Ostrovsky, and Pisemsky. 

The agitation in connection with the serfs deeply inter- 
ested him, for he had stood very near the people all his life ; 
and he began to occupy himself seriously, both in theory and 
practice, with the question of schools for the peasants, which 
did not then exist. He made two trips abroad, between 
1855 and 1861, probably to study this subject. 

After Feb. 19, 1861 (the date of the emancipation of 
the serfs). Count Tolstoi, and a very few other landed 
proprietors, settled definitely" upon their estates, and lived 
there for a long time uninterruptedly. The Count was pro- 
foundly' conscious of his duty^ towards his people ; he was 
for some time a justice of the peace ; took an ardent interest 
in common schools ; and even began the publication of a 


Vlll 


PREFACE. 


highly original pedagogical journal, called “Yasnaya Poly- 
ana.” In it he presented his views on the needs of popular 
education, which he had acquired directly from life, and on 
matters connected with the schools. He also dared to 
express very serious doubts as to what we have become 
accustomed to extol under the pompous titles of culture, 
civilization, progress, and so forth. Count Tolstoi attacked 
these questions boldly, set them forth in sharp outlines, and 
showed himself at times rather paradoxical, but at the same 
time produced a mass of facts and examples in the highest 
degree convincing and important, which were drawn directly 
from the life of the people, and from actual observation of 
peasant children . 

Progress, according to his ideas, was fitted onl}^ for a 
small section, and that the least occupied section, of societ}' ; 
and he opposed it as a distinct evil for the majorit}*, for the 
people as a whole. Against the blessings of culture he set 
the blessings of nature, of forest, of wild creatures, and of 
rivers ; physical development, purity of morals, and so 
forth. This is the report made by a journalist wdio visited 
him in 18G2 ; and he adds, “ It seems as though this man 
lives the life of the people, shares their views; that he is 
devoted to the good of the people with all the powers of his 
soul, though his understanding of them differs from that of 
others. The proof of this is his school, and the children, of 
whom he spoke with evident affection, praising their talents, 
their quickness of comprehension, their artistic feeling, their 
moral soundness, in whieh respects they are far in advance 
of the children in other classes of society.” 

Shortl}' after this. Count Tolstoi married (1862) Sophia 
Andreevna Bers, daughter of Andrei Evstafievitch Bers, a 
doctor, a Moscovian by birth, and a graduate of the University 
of Moscow. Her mother belonged to the Isleneff family, 
who had long been friends of the Tolstoi family, and whose 
large village, Krasnoe, was situated not far from Yasnaya 


PBEFACE. 


IX 


Polyana. The Tsleneff children were among the first friends 
and visitors of the Tolstoi household in the countiy. 

After his marriage, Count Tolstoi devoted himself wholly 
to family life, which had constantly been his ideal, and gave 
himself up more fully than ever to his village klyl. For 
many years he published nothing ; and it was only towards 
the end of the “ sixties ” that he began “ War and Peace ” 
in the “Russian Messenger ” {MussJcy Viestnik ) , which placed 
him next to Pushkin, and higher than any other Russian 
literary man. Between this and the publication in the same 
magazine of “Anna Karenina,” which was begun in 1875, 
he gave nothing to the world but some primers and reading- 
books for common schools, and an article on the Samara 
famine. Since the appearance of “Anna Karenina,” he has 
devoted himself to the consideration of purely religious ques- 
tions, and their application to life. 

These details are derived from Polevoi’s “History of Rus- 
sian Literature,” from which the accompanying portrait of 
Count Tolstoi in his peasant’s smock is also taken. It is to 
be hoped that he will return to literature, as Turgeneff be- 
sought him upon his death-bed to do, and that he will at some 
future day complete these Memoirs. 

THE TRANSLATOR. 

Boston, May 27, 1886. 




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CHILDHOOU 


A NOVEL. 




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FEB 11 


CHILDHOOD. 


CHAPTER I. 

THE TUTOR KARL IVANITCH. 

On the 12th of August, 18 — , the third day after my 
birthday when I had attained the age of ten, and had re- 
ceived such wonderful presents, Karl Ivanitch woke me at 
seven o’clock in the morning, striking at a fly directly 
above my head, with a flapper made of sugar-paper and fas- 
tened to a stick. He did it so jyvvkwardly that he entan- 
gled the image of my angel, which hung upon the oaken 
headboard of the bed ; and the dead fly fell straight upon 
my head. I thrust my nose out from under the coverlet, 
stopped the image, which was still rocking, with my hand, 
flung the dead fly on the floor, and regarded Karl Ivanitch 
with angry although sleepy eyes. But attired in his motley 
wadded dressing-gown, girded with a belt of the same 
material, a red knitted skull-cap with a tassel, and soft 
goatskin shoes, he pursued his course along the walls, catch- 
ing on things and flapping away. 

‘‘ Suppose I am little,” I thought, “ why should he worry 
me? Why doesn’t he kill the flies round Volodya’s bed? 
There are quantities of them there. No: Volodya is older 
than I ; I am the youngest of all ; and that is why he tor- 
ments me. He thinks of nothing else in life,” I whispered, 
‘‘ except how he may do unpleasant things to me. He 
knows well enough that he has waked me up and fright- 
ened me ; but he pretends not to see it, — the hateful man ! 
And his dressing-gown, and his cap, and his tassel — how 
disgusting!” 3 


4 


CHILDHOOD. 


As I was thus mentally expressing my vexation with Karl 
Ivanitch, he approached his own bed, glanced at the watch 
which hung above it in a slipper embroidered with glass 
beads, hung his flapper on a nail, and turned towards us, 
evidently in the most agreeable frame of mind. 

“Get up, children, get up. It’s time! Your mother' 
is already in the drawing-room!”^ he cried in his kindly 
German voice ; then he came over to me, sat down at my 
feet, and pulled his snuff-box from his pocket. I pretended 
to be asleep. First Karl Ivanitch took a pinch of snuff, 
wiped his nose, cracked his fingers, and then turned his 
attention to me. He began to tickle my heels, laughing the 
while. “ Come, come, lazybones,” he said. 

Much as I dreaded tickling, I neither sprang out of bed 
nor made any reply, but buried my head deeper under the 
pillow, kicked with all my might, and used every effort to 
keep from laughing. 

“ How good he is, and how he loves us, and yet I could 
think so badl}’ of him ! ” 

I was vexed at myself and at Karl Ivanitch ; I wanted to 
laugh and to cry : my nerves were upset. 

“ Oh, let me alone, Karl Ivanitch ! ” I cried with tears in 
my eyes, thrusting my head out from beneath the pillow. 
Karl Ivanitch was surprised ; he left my soles in peace, and 
began quietl}" to inquire what was the matter with me : had 
I had a bad dream? His kind German face, the sympathy 
with which he strove to divine the cause of my tears, caused 
them to flow more abundantly. I was ashamed ; and I could 
not understand how, a moment before, I had been unable 
to love Karl Ivanitch, and had thought his dressing-gown, 
cap, and tassel disgusting : now, on the contrary, the}^ all 
seemed to me extremely pleasing, and even the tassel ap- 
peared a plain proof of his goodness. I told him that I 
was crying because I had had a bad dream, — I thought 
mamma was dead, and they were carrying her away to bury 
her. I invented all this, for I really did not know what I 
had been dreaming that night ; but when Karl Ivanitch, 
touched by my tale, began to comfort and soothe me, it 
seemed to me that I actually had seen that dreadful vision, 
and my tears flowed from another cause. 

When Karl Ivanitch left me, and, sitting up in bed, I 
began to draw m3’ stockings upon my little legs, my tears 

1 Karl Ivanitch generally speaks in German. 


CHILDHOOD. 


5 


ceased in some measure ; but gloomy thoughts of the ficti- 
tious dream did not leave me. ^Dyadka ^ Nikolai came in, — 
a small, neat little man, who was always serious, precise, and 
respectful, and a great fiiend of Karl Ivanitch. lie brought 
our clothes and shoes ; Volodya had boots, but I still had 
those intolerable slippers with ribbons. I was ashamed to 
cry before him ; besides, the morning sun was shining cheer- 
fully in at the window, and Volodya was imitating ]\Iarya 
Ivanovna (my sisters’ governess), and laughing so loudly 
and merrily as he stood over the wash-basin, that even grave 
Nikolai, with towel on shoulder, the soap in one hand, and 
a hand-basin in the other, smiled and said : 

“ Enough, Vladimir Petrovitch, please wash yourself.” I 
became quite cheerful. 

‘‘Are you nearly ready?” called Karl Ivanitch’s voice 
from the schoolroom. 

His voice was stern, and had no longer that kindly accent 
which had moved me to tears. In the schoolroom Karl 
Ivanitch was another man : he was the tutor. I dressed 
quickly, washed, and with brush in hand, still smoothing my 
wet hair, I appeared at his call. 

Karl Ivanitch, with spectacles on nose, and a book in his 
hand, was sitting in his usual place, between the door and 
the window. To the left of the door were two shelves of 
books: one was ours — the children’s; the other was Karl 
Ivanitch’s particular property. On ours were all sorts of 
books, — school-books and others : some stood upright, others 
were lying down. Only two big volumes of Ilistoire des 
Voj’ages,” in red bindings, leaned in a stately way against 
the wall ; then came long, thick, big, and little books, — 
covers without books, and books without covers. All were 
piled up and pushed in when we were ordered to put the 
library, as Karl Ivanitch called this shelf, in order before our 
play-hour. If the collection of books on his private shelf 
w’as not as large as ours, it was even more miscellaneous. 

I remember three of them, — a German pamphlet on the 
manuring of cabbage-gardens, without a cover; one volume 
of the history of the “Seven Years War,” in parchment, 
burned on one corner ; and a complete course of hydrostatics. 
Karl Ivanitch i)assed the greater part of his time in reading, 
and even injured his eyesight thereby ; but he never read 
any thing except these books and “The Northern Bee.” 

1 Children’s valet. 


6 


CniLDHOOD. 


Among the articles which lay on Karl Ivanitch’s shelf, 
was one which recalls him to me more than all the rest. It 
was a circle of cardboard fixed on a wooden foot, upon 
which it revolved by means of pegs. Upon this circle were 
pasted pictures representing caricatures of some gentleman 
and a wig-maker. Karl Ivanitch pasted very well, and had 
himself invented and manufactured this circle in order to 
protect his weak eyes from the bright light. 

I seem now to see before me his long figure, in its wadded 
dressing-gown, and the red cap beneath which his thin gray 
hair is visible. He sits beside a little table, upon which stands 
the circle with the wig-maker, casting its shadow upon his face ; 
in one hand he holds a book, the other rests on the arm of the 
chair ; beside him lies his watch, with the huntsman painted 
on the face, his checked handkerchief, his round black snuff- 
box, his green spectacle-case, and the snuffers on the dish. 
All this lies with so much dignity and precision, each in its 
proper place, that one might conclude from this orderliness 
alone that Karl Ivanitch has a pure conscience and a restful 
spirit. 

If you stole up-stairs on tiptoe to the schoolroom, after 
running about down-stairs in the hall as much as you 
pleased, behold — Karl Ivanitch was sitting alone in his 
arm-chair, reading some one of his beloved books, with a 
proud, calm expression of countenance. Sometimes I found 
him at such times when he was not reading : his spectacles 
had dropped down on his big aquiline nose ; his blue, half- 
shut ej'es had a certain peculiar expression ; and his lips 
smiled sadly. All was quiet in the room : his even breath- 
ing, and the ticking of the hunter-adorned watch, alone were 
audible. 

' He did not perceive me ; and I used to stand in the door, 
and think : Poor, poor old man ! There are many of us ; 
we play, we are merry : but he — he is all alone, and no one 
treats him kindly. He tells the truth, when he says he is an 
orphan. And the histoi’y of his life is terrible ! I remember 
that he related it to Nikolai : it is dreadful to be in his situa- 
tion ! And it made one so sorry, that one wanted to go to 
him, take his hand, and say, Dear Karl Ivanitch! ” He 
liked to have me say that : he always petted me, and it was 
plain that he was touched. 

On the other wall hung maps, nearly all of them torn, 
* but skilfully repaired by the hand of Karl Ivanitch. On the 


CHILDHOOD. 


7 


third wall, in the middle of which was the door leading down 
stairs, hung two rulers: one was all hacked up — that was 
or.rs ; the other — the new one — was his own private luler, 
and employed more for encouraging ns than for ruling 
pro\)er. On the other side of the door was a blackboard, 
upon which our grand misdeeds were designated by circles, 
and our small ones by crosses. To the left of the board 
was the corner where we were put on our knees. 

How well I remember that corner ! 1 remember the stove- 

door, and the slide in it, and the noise this made when it 
was turned. You 'would kneel and kneel in that corner until 
your knees and back ached, and you would think, “Karl 
Ivanitch has forgotten me ; he must be sitting quiet!}' in his 
soft arm-chair, and reading his hydrostatics : and how is it 
with me?” And then you would begin to hint of your 
existence, to softly open and shut the damper, or pick the 
plaster from the wall ; but if too big a piece suddenly fell 
noisily to the floor, the fright alone was worse than the 
whole punishment. You would peep round at Karl Ivanitch ; 
and there he sat, book in hand, as though he had not noticed 
any thing. 

In the middle of the room stood a table, covered with a 
ragged black oil-cloth, beneath which the edge, hacked in 
places with penknives, was visible in many places. Around 
the table stood several unpainted stools, polished with long 
use. The last wall was occupied by three little windows. 
This was the view which was had from them : Directly in 
front of the windows ran the road, every hollow, pebble, 
and rut of which had long been familiar and dear to me ; 
beyond the road was a close-trimmed linden alley, behind 
which the wattled fence was visible here and there. A field 
could be seen through the alley ; on one side of this was a 
threshing-floor, on the other a wood ; the guard’s little cot- 
tage was visible in the distance. To the right, a part of the 
terrace could be seen, upon which the grown-up people gen- 
erally sat before dinner. If you looked in that direction 
w'hile Karl Ivanitch was correcting 3’our page of dictation, 
you could see mamma’s black head, and some one’s back, 
and hear faint sounds of conversation and laughter ; and 
you would grow vexed that you could not be there, and 
think, “When I grow up, shall 1 stop learning lessons, 
and sit, not over conversations forever, but always with 
those I love?” Vexation increases to sorrow; and God 


8 


CHILDHOOD. 


knows w^hy and what 3-011 dream, until you hear Karl Ivanitch 
raging over 3^0111’ mistakes. 

Karl Ivanitch took off his dressing-gown, put on his blue 
swallow-tailed coat with humps and folds upon the shoulders, 
arranged his necktie before the glass, and led us down-stairs 
to say good-morning to mamma. 


CHILDHOOD. 


9 


CHAPTER II. 

MAMMA. 

IMamma was sitting in the parlor, and pouring out the 
tea : in one hand she held the teapot, in the other the faucet 
of the samovar., from which the water flowed over the top 
of the teapot upon the tray beneath. Bnt though she was 
gazing steadily at it, she did not perceive it, nor that we had 
entered. 

So many memories of the past present themselves when 
one tries to revive in fancy the features of a beloved being, 
that one views them dimly through these memories, as 
through tears. These are the tears of imagination. When 
I try to recall my mother as she was at that time, nothing 
appears to me but her brown e3'es, which always expressed 
love and goodness ; the mole on her neck a little lower down 
than the spot where the short hairs grow ; her white embroid- 
ered collar ; her cool, soft hand, which petted me so often, 
and which I so often kissed : but her image as a whole 
escapes me. 

To the left of the divan stood the old English grand piano ; 
and before the piano sat my dark-complexioned sister Liu- 
bi^tchka, playing dementi’s studies with evident effort, and 
with rosy fingers which had just been washed in cold water. 
She was eleven. She wore a short linen dress with white 
lace-trimmed pantalettes, and could only manage an octave 
as an arpeggio. Beside her, half turned awa3% sat Marya 
Ivanovna, in a cap with rose-colored ribbons, a blue jacket, 
and a red and angry face, which assumed a still more for- 
bidding expression when Karl Ivanitch entered. She looked 
threateningly at him ; and, without responding to his salute, 
she continued to count, and beat time with her foot, o^<e, 
three, more loudly and commandingly than before. 

Karl Ivanitch, paying no attention whatever to this, ac- 
cording to his custom, went straight to kiss my mother’s 


10 


CUILDIIOOD. 


hand with a German greeting. She recovered herself, shook 
her little head as though desirous of driving away painful 
thoughts with the gesture, gave her hand to Karl Ivanitch, 
and kissed him on his wrinkled temple, while he kissed her 
hand. 

“ Thank 3"Ou, my dear Karl Ivanitch.” And continuing 
to speak in German, she inquired : 

Did the children sleep well? ” 

Karl Ivanitch was deaf in one ear, and now heard nothing 
at all on account of the noise from the piano. He bent over 
the divan, rested one hand on the table as he stood on one 
foot ; and with a smile which seemed to me then the height 
of refinement, he raised his cap above his head, and said : 

“ Will 3'ou excuse me, Natal}"a Nikolaevna? ” 

Karl Ivanitch, for the sake of not catching cold in his 
bald head, never took off his red cap ; but each time he 
entered the drawing-room he begged permission to keep it 
on. 

“ Put on your cap, Karl Ivanitch. ... I ask you if the 
children slept well?” said mamma, moving nearer to him, 
and speaking louder. 

But again he heard nothing, covered his bald spot with 
his red cap, and smiled more amiably than ever. 

“ Stop a minute, Mimi,” said mamma to Mar^^a Iva- 
novna with a smile : “ w^e can hear nothing.” 

Beautiful as was mamma’s face, it became incomparably - 
more lovel}^ when she smiled, and seemed to enliven eveiy 
thing about her. If in life’s trying moments I could catch 
but a glimpse of that smile, I should not know what grief is. 

It seems to me that what is called beauty of face consists in 
the smile alone : if it does not alter the countenance, then 
the latter is ordinary ; if it spoils it, then it is bad. 

When greeting me, mamma took m3’ head in both her 
hands, and bent it back, looked intently at me, and said : 

“ You have been crving this morning? ” 

V O O 

I made no reply. She kissed me on the eyes, and asked 
in German : 

“ What were you cr3’ing about? ” 

When she spoke pleasantly to us, she alwa3’s addressed us 
in that tongue, which she knew to perfection. 

“ I cried in my sleep, mamma,” I said, recalling my ficti- 
tious dream with all the details, and I involuntarily shuddered 
at the thought. 


CIIILDHOOD. 


11 


Karl Ivanitch confirmed my statement, but held his peace 
about the dream. After discussing the weather, in which 
conversation Mimi also took part, mamma laid six pieces of 
sugar on the tray for some of the favored servants, and went 
to her embroidery-frame which stood in the window. 

Now go to your father, children, and tell him that he must 
come to me without fail before he goes to threshing-floor.” 

The music, counting, and black looks began again, and 
we went to papa. Passing through the room which had 
borne the title of the butler’s pantry since grandfather’s 
time, we entered the study. 


12 


CHILDHOOD, 


CHAPTER III. 

PAPA. 

He was standing by his writing-table, and pointing to some 
envelopes, papers, and bundles of bank-notes. He was an- 
gry, and was discussing something sharply with the overseer, 
Yakov Mikhailof, who, standing in his usual place, between 
the door and the barometer, with his hands behind him, 
was moving his fingers with great vivacit}’ in various direc- 
tions. 

The angrier papa grew, the more swiftly did the fingers 
move, aiui on the contrary, when papa ceased speaking, the 
fingers also stopped ; but when Yakov began to talk himself, 
his fingers underwent the greatest disturbance, and jumped 
wildly about on all sides. It seemed to me that Yakov’s 
secret thoughts might be guessed from their movements : 
but his face was always quiet ; it expressed a sense of his 
own dignity and at the same time of subordination, that is 
to say, “ I am right, but nevertheless have your own way ! ” 

Wlien papa saw us, he merely said : 

“ Wait, I’ll be with yon presently.” 

And he nodded his head towards the door, to indicate that 
one of ns was to shut it. 

‘‘Ah, merciful God! what’s to be done with 5’on now, 
Yakov?” he went on, speaking to the overseer, shrugging his 
shoulders (which was a habit with him). “This envelope 
with an enclosure of eight hundred rubles . . .” 

Yakov moved his abacus, counted off eight hundred rubles, 
fixed his gaze on some indefinite point, and waited for what 
w\as coming next. 

“ Is for the expenses of the farming during my absence. 
Do yon understand? From the mill yon are to receive one 
thousand rubles : is that so, or not? You are to receive back 
eight thousand worth of loans from the treasuiy ; for the 
hay, of which, according to your own calculation, you can 


CHILDHOOD. 


13 


sell seven thousand poods, ^ — at forty-five kopeks, I will say, 
— you will get three thousand: consequently, how much 
money will you have in all? Twelve thousand: is that so, 
or not? ” 

‘‘Exactly, sir,” said Yakov. 

But 1 pei-Ceived from the briskness with which his fingers 
moved, that he wanted to answer back : papa interrupted 
him. 

‘‘ Now, out of this money, you will send ten thousand ru- 
bles to the council at Petrovskoe. Now, the money which 
is in the office ” continued papa (Yakov mixed up this twelve 
thousand, and told olf twenty-one thousand), “ you will bring 
to me, and charge to expenses on this present date.” ( Yikov 
shook up his abacus again, and turned it, indicating thereby, 
it is probable, that the twenty-one thousand would disappear 
also). “And this envelope containing money you will for- 
wai'd from me to its address.” 

I was standing near the table, and I glanced at the inscrip- 
tion. It read : “ Karl Ivanitcli Mauer.” 

Papa must have perceived that I had read what it was not 
necessaiT that I should know ; for he laid his hand on my 
shoulder, and with a slight movement indicated that I was to 
go away from his table. I did not understand whether it 
was a caress or a hint ; but, whatever it meant, I kissed the 
large, sinewy hand which rested on my shoulder. 

“ Yes, sir,” said Yakov. “ And what are your orders with 
regard to the Khabarovka money? ” 

Khabarovka was mamma's village. 

“ Leave it in the office, and on no account make use of it 
without my oi’ders.” 

dakov remained silent for a few seconds, then his fingers 
twisted about with increased rapidity, and altering the ex- 
pression of servile stui)idity with which he had listened to 
his master’s orders, to the expression of bold cunning which 
was natural to him, he drew the abacus towards him, and 
began to s[)eak. 

“ Permit me to report, Piotr Alexandriteh, that it shall be 
as you please, but it is impossible to pay the council on time. 
You said,” he continued, his speech broken with pauses, 
“ that we must receive money from the loans, from the mill, 
and from the hay.” As he mentioned these statistics, he 
calculated them on the abacus. “ J am afraid that we may 

1 A pood is about forty pounds. 


14 


CTIILDnOOD. 


be making some mistake in oiir reckoning,” he added after 
a pause, glancing sharply at papa. 

“ How ? ” 

‘^Please to consider: with regard to the mill, since the 
miller has been to me twice to ask for delay, and has sworn 
by Christ the Lord that he has no money . . . and he is 
here now. Will you not please to talk with him yourself? ” 
What does he say?” asked papa, signiH’ing by a motion 
of his head that he did not wish to speak with the miller. 

“ The same old story. He says that there was no grind- 
ing ; that what little money he got, he put into the dam. If 
we take him away, sir, will it be of any advantage to us? 
With regard to the loans, as you w'ere pleased to mention 
them, 1 think I have already reported that our money is sunk 
there, and we shall not be able to get at it veiy soon. I 
sent a load of flour into the city a few^ days ago, to Ivan 
Afanasitch, w'ith a note about the matter; he replied that 
he would be glad to exert himself in Piotr Alexandrovitch’s 
behalf, but the affair is not in my hands, and 3"ou will hardly 
receive your quittance under two months. You w^ere pleased 
to speak of the hay : suppose it does sell for three thousand.” 

He marked off three thousand on his abacus, and remained 
silent for a moment, glancing first at his calculating frame 
and then at papa’s eyes, as mucli as to sa}" : 

“ You see yourself how little it is. Yes, and w^e will chaf- 
fer about the hay again if it is to be sold now, 3^011 will 
please to understand.” 

It was plain that he had a great store of arguments ; it 
must have been for that I’eason that papa interrupted him. 

“ I shall make no change in my arrangements,” he said ; 
‘‘but if any delay should actually occur in receiving this 
money, then there is nothing to be done ; you will take 
what is necessary from the Khabarovka funds.” 

“ Yes, sir.” 

It w’as evident from the expression of Jakov’s face and 
fingers, that this last order afforded him the greatest satis- 
faction. 

Yakov wxas a serf, and a very zealous and devoted man. 
Like all good overseers, he was extremel}^ parsimonious on 
his master’s account, and entertained the strangest possible 
ideas as to wiiat wms for his master’s interest. He w'as eter- 
nally fretting over the increase of his master’s property at 
the expense of that of his mistress, and tried to demonstrate 


CHILDHOOD. 


15 


thrct it was indispensable to employ all the revenue from her 
estate upon Petrovskoe (the village in which we lived) . He 
was triumphant at the present moment, because he had suc- 
ceeded on this point. 

Papa greeted us, and said that it was time to put a stop 
to our idleness : we were no longer small children, and it was 
time for us to study seriously. 

“I think you already know that I am going to Moscow 
to-night, and I shall take you with me,” he said. “ You 
will live with your grandmother, and mamma will remain 
here with the girls. And you know that she will have but 
one consolation, — to hear that you are studying well, and 
that they are pleased with you.” 

Although we had been expecting something unusual, from 
the preparations which had been making for several days, 
this news surprised us terribly. Volodya turned red, and 
repeated mamma’s message in a trembling voice. 

“ So that is what my dream foretold, ” I thought. “ God 
grant there may be nothing worse ! ” 

1 was very, veiy sorry for mamma ; and, at the same time, 
the thought that we were grown up afforded me pleasure. 

“If we are going away to-night, we surely shall have no 
lessons. That’s famous,” I thought. “ But I’m sorry for 
Karl Ivanovitch. He is certainly going to be discharged, 
otherwise that envelope would not have been prepared for 
him. It would be better to go on studying forever, and not 
go away, and not part from mamma, and not hurt poor Karl 
Ivanitch’s feelings. He is so very unhappy ! ” 

These thoughts flashed through my mind. I did not stir from 
the spot, and gazed intently at the black ribbons in m3' slippers. 

After speaking a few words to Karl Ivanitch about the 
fall of the barometer, and giving orders to Jakov not to feed 
the dogs, in order that he might go out after dinner and 
make a farewell trial of the young hounds, pai)a, contrary 
to my expectations, sent us to our studies, comforting us, 
however, with a promise to take us on the hunt. 

On the way up-stairs, I ran out on the terrace. Papa’s 
favorite greyhound, Milka, lay blinking in the sunshine at 
the door. 

“Milotchka,” I said, petting her and kissing her nose, 
“ we are going away to-da}" : good-by ! We shall never see 
each other again.” 

My feelings overpowered me, and I burst into tears. 


16 


CniLDUOOD. 


CHAPTER IV. 

LESSONS. . ^ 

Karl Ivanitch was very much out of sorts. This was 
evident from his frowning brows, and from the way he flung 
his coat into the commode, his angiy manner of tying his 
girdle, and the deep mark which he made with his nail in the 
conversation-book to indicate the point which we must attain. 
I'olodya studied properly ; but my mind was so upset that 
I positively could do nothing. I gazed long and stupidly 
at the conversation-book, but I could not read for the tears 
which gathered in my eyes at the thought of the parting 
before us. When the time for recitation came, Karl Ivanitch 
listened with his eyes half shut (which was a bad sign) ; and 
just at the place where one says, “ Where do you come 
from?” and the other answers, “I come from the coffee- 
house,” I could no longer restrain my tears; and sobs pre- 
vented my uttering, “Have you not read the paper?” 
When it came to writing, I made such blots with my tears 
falling on the paper, that I might have been writing with 
water on wrapping-paper. 

Karl Ivanitch became angry ; he put me on his knees, 
declared that it was obstinacy, a puppe^tj comedy (this was a 
favorite expression of his), threatened me with the ruler, 
and demanded that I should beg his pardon, although I could 
not utter a word for my tears. He must have recognized 
his injustice at length, for he went into Nikolai's room and 
slammed the door. 

The conversation in dyadka’s room was audible in the 
schoolroom. 

“ You have heard, Nikolai, that the children are going to 
Moscow?” said Karl Iv'anitch as he'entered. 

“ Certainly, I have heard that.” 

Nikolai must have made a motion to rise, for Karl Ivanitch 
said, “Sit still, Nikolai!” and then he shut the door. I 
emerged from the corner, and went to listen at the door. 


CTIILDTIOOD. 


17 


“However much good you do to people, however much 
you are attached to them, gratitude is not to be expected, 
apparently, Nikolai,” said Karl Jvauitch with feeling. 

Nikolai, who was sitting at the window at his slioemaking, 
nodded his head atlirmatix ely. 

“ 1 have lived in this Inmse twelve years, and I can say 
before God, Nikolai,” continued Karl Ivanitch, raising his 
eyes and his snuff-box to the ceiling, ‘‘that I have loved them, 
and taken more interest in them than if they had been my 
own cliildren. You remember, Nikohii, when Volodenka liad 
tlie fever, how 1 sat by his bedside, and never closed my eyes 
for nine days. Yes; then 1 was good, dear Karl Ivanib h ; 
then I was necessary. But now,” he added with an ironical 
smile, “ now the children are grown np ; they must study in 
earnest. Just as if they were not learning any thing here, 
Nikolai!” 

“So they are to study more, it seems?” said Nikolai, 
laying down his awl, and drawing out his thread with both 
hands. 

“ Yes : I am no longer needed, I must be driven off. But 
where are their promises ? Where is their gratitude ? I re- 
vere and love Natalya Nikolaevna, Nikolai,” said he, laying 
his hand on his breast. “ But what is she? Her will is of 
no more consequence in this house than that; ” hereupon he 
flung a scrap of leather on the floor with an expressive ges- 
ture. “ 1 know whose doing this is, and why I am no longer 
needed ; because I don’t lie, and pretend not to see things, 
like some people. I have always been accustomed to speak 
the truth to every one,” said he proudly. “ God be with 
them ! They won’t accumulate wealth by getting rid of me ; 
and God is merciful. — I shall find a bit of bread for myself, 

. . . shall I not, Nikolai?” 

Nikolai raised liis'head and looked at Karl Ivanitch, as 
though desirous of assuring himself whether he really would 
be able to find a bit of bread ; but he said nothing. 

Karl Ivanitch talked much and long in this strain. He 
said they had been more capable of appreciating his services 
at a certain general’s house, where he had formerly lived (I 
was much pained to hear it). He spoke of Saxony, of his 
parents, of his friend the tailor, Schdnheit, and so forth, and 
so forth. 

I sympatliized with his sorrow, and it pained me that papa 
and Karl Ivanitch, ^^holn I loved almost equally, did not 


18 


CHILDHOOD. 


understand each other. I betook myself to my corner again, 
crouched down on my heels, and pondered how 1 might bring 
about an understanding between them. 

When Kail Ivanitch returned to the schoolroom, he ordered 
me to get up, and jirepare my copy-book for writing from 
dictation. When all was ready, lie seated liimself majesti- 
cally in his arm-chair, and in a voice which appeared to issue 
from some great deptii, he began to dictate as follows : 

“ ^Of airpas-sions the most re-volt-ing is,’ have you writ- 
ten that?” Here he paused, slowly took a pinch of snutf, 
and continued with renewed energy, — “ ‘ the most revolting 
is In-gra-ti-tude ’ . . . a capital 

I looked at him after writing the last word, in expectation 
of more. 

“Period,” said he, with a barely perceptible smile, and 
made me a sign to give him my copy-book. 

He read this apothegm, which gave utterance to his in- 
ward sentiment, through several times, with various intona- 
tions, and with an expression of the greatest satisfaction. 
Then he set us a lesson in history, and seated himself by 
the window. His face was not so morose as it had been ; it 
expressed the delight of a man who had taken a proper 
revenge for an insult that had been put upon him. 

It was quarter to one ; but Karl Ivanitch had no idea of 
dismissing us, apparently : in fact, he gave out some new 
lessons. 

Ennui and hunger increased in equal measure. With the 
greatest impatience, I noted all the signs which betokened 
the near approach of dinner. There came the woman with 
her mop to wash the plates ; then I could hear the dishes 
rattle on the sideboard. 1 heard them move the table, and 
place the chairs; then Mimi came in from the garden with 
Liubotchka and Katenka (Katenka was Mimi’s twelve-year- 
old daughter) ; but nothing was to be seen of Foka, the 
butler, who always came and announced that dinner was 
ready. Then only could we throw aside our books without 
paying any attention to Karl Ivanitch, and run down-stairs. 

Then footsteps were audible on the stairs, but that was 
not Foka ! I knew his step by heart, and could always 
recognize the squeak of his boots. The door opened, and a 
figure which was totally unknown to me appeared. 


CHILDHOOD. 


19 


CHAPTER V. 


THE FOOL. 

Into the room walked a man of fifty, with a long, pale, 
pock-marked face, wdth long gray hair and a sparse reddish 
beard. He was of such vast height, that in order to pass 
through the door, he was obliged to bend not only his head, 
bnt his whole body. He wore a ragged garment which re- 
sembled both a caftan and a cassock ; in his hand he carried 
a huge staff. As he entered the room, he smote the floor 
with it with all his might ; opening his mouth, and wrinkling 
his brows, he laughed in a terrible and unnatural manner. 
He was blind of one eye ; and the white pupil of that eye 
hopped about incessantly, and imparted to his othervvise 
homely countenance a still more repulsive expression. 

“Aha! Pve found you!” he shouted, running np to 
Volodya with little steps: he seized his head, and began a 
careful examination of his crown. Then, with a perfectly 
serious expression, he left him, walked np to the table, and 
began to blow under the oil-cloth, and to make the sign of 
the cross over it. “ 0-oh, it’s a pity ! o-oh, it’s sad 1 The 
dear children . . . will fly aw^ay,” he said, in a voice quiv- 
ering with tears, gazing feelingly at Volodya; and he began 
to wipe awa}’ the tears which were actually falling, with his 
sleeve. 

His voice was coarse and hoarse ; his movements hasty 
and rough ; his talk was silly and incoherent (he never used 
any pronouns) ; but his intonations were so touching, and 
his grotesque yellow face assumed at times such a frankh* 
sorrowful expression, that, in listening to him, it was impos- 
sible to refrain from a feeling of mingled, pity, fear, and 
grief. 

This was the fool and pilgrim Grischa. 

Whence was he? Who were his parents? What had in- 
duced him to adopt the singular life which he led ? No one 


20 


CITILDTIOOD." 


knew. I only knew that he had passed since the age of fif- 
teen as a fool who went barefoot winter and summer, visited 
the monasteries, gave little images to those who struck his 
fancy, and uttered enigmatic words which some people ac- 
cepted as prophecy ; that no one had ever known him in any 
other aspect; that he occasionally went to grandmother’s; 
and that some said he was the unfortunate son of wealthy 
parents, and a genuine fool ; while others held that he was a 
simple [peasant and lazy. 

At length the long-wished-for and punctual Foka arrived, 
and we went down-stairs. Grischa, who continued to sob 
and talk all sorts of nonsense, followed us, and pounded 
every step on the stairs with his staff. Papa and mamma 
entered the drawing-room arm in arm, discussing something 
in a low tone. Marva Ivanovna was sitting with much dig- 
nity in one of the arm-chairs, symmeti’ically arranged at right 
angles close to the divan, and giving instructions in a stern, 
repressed voice to the girls who sat beside her. As soon 
as Karl Ivanitch entered the room, she glanced at him, but 
immediately turned away ; and her face assumed an expres- 
sion which might have been interpreted to mean : “ I do not 
see 3'ou, Karl Ivanitch.” It was plain from the girls’ e3^es, 
that they were veiy anxious to impart to us some extremely 
important news as soon as possible ; but it would have been 
an infringement of Mimi’s rules to jump up and come to us. 
AVe must first go to her, and say, Bod jour ^ Mimi ! ” and 
give a scrape with the foot ; and then it was permissible to 
enter into conversation. 

What an intolerable creature that Mimi was ! It was im- 
possible to talk about an}^ thing in her presence : she con- 
sidered eveij thing improper. Moreover, she was constantl}" 
exhorting us to speak French, and that, as if out of malice, 
just when we wanted to chatter in Kussian ; or at dinner — 
you would just begin to enjoy a dish, and want to be let 
alone, when she would infallibl}^ sa3^ Eat that with bread,” 
or How are 3'ou holding 3"our fork? ” — “ What business is 
it of hers?” you think. “ Let her teach her girls, but Karl 
Ivanitch is there to see to us.” I fully shared his hatred 
for Home people. 

“ Ask mamma to take us on the hunt,” whispered Katen- 
ka, stopping me by seizing my round jacket, when the 
grown-up peoi)le had passed on before into the dining-room. 

“ Very good : we will try.” 


CHILDHOOD. 


21 


Grischa ate in the dining-room, but at a small table apart ; 
he did not raise his eyes from his ])late, made fearful grim- 
aces, sighed occasionally, and said, as though speaking to 
himself: “It’s a pity . . . she^ has flown away . . . the 
dove will fly to heaven. . . . Oh, there’s a stone on the 
grave ! ” and so on. 

Mamma had been in a troubled state of mind ever since 
the morning ; Grischa’s presence, words, and behavior, 
evidently increased this perturbation. 

“Ah, I nearly forgot to ask you about one thing,” she 
said, handing papa a plate of soup. 

“ What is it? ” 

“Please have your dreadful dogs shut up: they came 
near biting poor Grischa when he passed through the 3'ard. 
And they might attack the children.” 

Hearing himself mentioned, Grischa turned towards the 
table, and began to exhibit the torn tails of his garment, 
and to speak with his mouth full. 

“ The}’ wanted to bite to death. . . . God did not allow 
it. . . . It’s a sin to set the dogs on ! Don’t beat the 
bolschak^ . . . why beat? God forgives — times are dif- 
ferent now.” 

“ What’s that he’s saying?” asked papa, gazing sternly 
and intently at him. “ I don’t understand a word.” 

“But I understand,” answered mamma: “he is telling 
me that some huntsman set his dogs on him, on purpose, as 
he says, ‘ that they might bite him to death,’ and he begs 
3’ou not to punish the man for it.” 

“ Ah ! that’s it,” said papa. “ How does he know that I 
mean to punish the huntsman? You know that I’m not over 
fond of these gentlemen,” he added in French, “and this 
one in j)articular does not please me, and ought ” — 

“Ah, do not say that, my dear,” interrupted mamma, ns 
if frightened at something. “ What do you know about him ?” 

“it seems to me that I have had occasion to learn these 
])eople’s wa^^s by heart : enough of them come to 3’ou. 
Tlie^^’re all of one cut. It’s forever and eternally the same 
stoiy,” 

It was plain that mamma held a totally different opinion 
on this i)oint, but she would not dispute. 

’ It is indispensable to the sense in Eneflish to employ prononns, occasionally. 
This may be considered a specimen of Orischa’s prophecy, the pronoun beiug indi- 
cat'd bv the termination of the verb. 

^ Elder of a village, family, or religious commu..ity. 


22 


cniLDnooi). 


“ Please give me a patty,” said she. “ Are the}" good to- 
day? ” 

'' Yes, it makes me angry,” went on papa, taking a patty 
in his hand, but holding it at such a distance that mamma 
could not reach it ; “it makes me angry, when 1 see sensible 
and cultivated people fall into the trap.” 

And he struck the table with his fork. 

“ I asked you to hand me a patty,” she repeated, reaching 
out her hand. 

“ And they do well,” continued papa, moving his hand 
farther away, “ when they arrest such people. Tlie only 
good they do is to upset the weak nerves of certain indi- 
viduals,” he added with a smile, perceiving that tlie conver- 
sation greatly displeased mamma, and gave her the patty. 

“ 1 have only one remark to make to yon on the subject : 
it is difficult to believe that a man, who, in spite of his sixty 
years, goes barefoot summer and winter, and wears chains 
weighing two poods, which he never takes off, under his 
clothes, and who has more than once rejected a proposal to 
lead an easy life, — it is difficult to believe that such a man 
does all this from laziness.” 

“ As for prophecy,” she added, with a sigh, after a pause, 
“ I have paid for my belief ; I think I have told j’ou how 
Kiriuscha foretold the very day and hour of papa’s death.” 

“Ah, what have you done to me!” exclaimed papa, 
smiling and putting his hand to his mouth on the side where 
Mimi sat. (When he did this, I always listened with strained 
attention, in the expectation of something amusing.) “ Why 
have you reminded me of his feet? I have looked at them, 
and now I shall not be able to eat an}' thing.” 

The dinner was nearing its end. Liubotchka and Katenka 
winked at ns incessantly, twisted on their chairs, and evinced 
the greatest uneasiness. The winks signified : “ Why don’t 
you ask them to take us hunting? ” I nudged Volodya with 
my elbow ; Volodya nudged me, and finally summoned up his 
courage : he explained, at first in a timid voice, but after- 
wards quite firmly and loudly, that, as we were to leave on 
that day, we should like to have the girls taken to the hunt 
with us, in tlie carriage. After a short consultation among 
the grown-up peo[)le, the question was decided in our favor ; 
and, what was still more pleasant, mamma said that she 
would go with u^ herself. 


CUILDUOOD. 


23 


CHAPTER Vr. 

PREPARATIONS FOR THE HUNT. 

During dessert, Jakov was summoned, and received orders 
with regard to the carriage, the dogs, and the saddle-horses, 
— all being given with the greatest minuteness, and every 
horse specified byname. Volodya’s horse was lame: papa 
ordered the hunter to be saddled for him. This word 
“hunter” always sounded strange in mamma’s ears: it 
seemed to her that it must be something in the nature of a 
wild beast, and that it would infallibly run away with and 
kill Volodya. In spite of the exhortations of papa and of 
Volodya, who with wonderful boldness asserted that that was 
nothing, and that he liked to have the horse run away ex- 
tremely, poor mamma continued to declare that she should 
be in torments during the whole of the excursion. 

Dinner came to an end ; the big people went to the library 
to drink their coffee, while we ran into the garden, to scrape 
our feet along the paths covered with the yellow leaves which 
had fallen, and to talk. The conversation began on the 
subject of Volodya riding the hunter, and how shameful it 
was that Liubotchka ran more softly than Katenka, and how 
interesting it would be to see Grischa’s chains, and so on : 
not a word was said about our separation. Our conversation 
was interrupted by the arrival of the carriage, upon each of 
whose springs sat a servant boy. Behind the carriage came 
the huntsmen with the dogs; behind tlie huntsmen, Ignat 
the coachman, on the horse destined for Volodya, and lead- 
ing my old nag by the bridle. First we rushed to the fence, 
whence all these interesting things were visible, and then we 
flew up-stairs shrieking and stamping, to dress ourselves as 
much like hunters as possible. One of the chief means to 
this end was tucking our trousers into our boots. We be- 
took ourselves to this without delay, making hnste to com- 
plete the operation, and run out upon the steps to enjoy the 


24 


CIIILDUOOD. 


sio'lit of the dogs and horses, and the conversation with the 
huntsinen. 

The da}^ was warm. White clouds of fanciful forms had 
been hovering all the morning on the horizon ; then the little 
breezes drove them nearer and nearer, so that they obscured 
the snn from time to time. But black and frequent as were 
these clouds, it was. plain that they were not destined to 
gathei* into a thimder-storm, and spoil onr enjoyment on onr 
last opportunity. Towards evening they began to disperse 
again : some grew pale, lengthened out, and tied to the hori- 
zon ; others, jnst overhead, turned into white transparent 
scales ; only one large black cloud lingered in the east. 
Karl Ivanitch always knew where every sort of cloud went ; 
he declared that this cloud would go to Maslovka, that there 
w'onld be no rain, and that the weather would be fine. 

Foka, in spite of his advanced years, ran down the steps 
very quickly and cleverl}^ cried, “ Drive np ! ” and, planting 
his feet far apart, stood firm in the middle of the entrance, 
between the spot to which the carriage should be brought, 
and the threshold, in the attitude of a man who does not need 
to be reminded of his duty. The ladies followed, and after 
a brief dispute as to who should sit on which side, and whom 
they should cling to (although it seemed to me quite un- 
necessary to hold on),^they seated themselves, opened their 
l)arasols, and drove off. When the lineika ^ started, mam- 
ma pointed to the hunter, and asked the coachman in a 
trembling-voice : 

“ Is that the horse for Vladimir Petrovitch? ” 

And when the coachman replied in the affirmative, she 
waved her hand and turned away. I was very impatient : I 
mounted my horse, looked straight between" his ears, and 
went through various evolutions in the court-yard. 

“ Please not to crush the dogs,” said one of the hunts- 
men. 

“ Rest easy : this is not my first experience,” I answered 
proudly. 

Volodya mounted the hunter, not without some quaking 
in spite of his resolution of character, and asked several 
times as he patted him : 

“ Is lie gentle ? ” 

lie looked very handsome on horseback, — just like a 
grown-up person, llis thighs sat so well on the saddle that 

1 A purticuliir soil of four-Bcutod d.ozliky. 


CniLDIIOOD. 


25 


I was envious, — particularly as, so far as I could judge 
from mv shadow, 1 was far from presenting so fine an 
appearance. 

Then we heard papa’s step on the stairs : the overseer of 
the young dogs drove up the scattered hounds ; the hunts- 
men with greyhounds called in theirs, and began to mount. 
The groom led the horse to the steps ; papa’s leash of dogs, 
which had been h’ing about in various picturesque poses, 
ran to him. After him, in a bead collar jingling like iron, 
INI ilka sprang gayl^' out. She always greeted the male dogs 
when she came out ; she played with some, smelled of 
others, growled a little, and hunted fleas on others. 

Papa mounted his horse, and we set out. 


26 


CniLDUOOD. 


CHAPTER VII. 

THE HUNT. 

The huntsman in chief, who wms called Tiirka, rode in 
front on a dark gray Roman-nosed horse ; he wore a shaggy 
cap, a huge horn over his shoulder, and a knife in his belt. 
From the man’s fierce and gloomy exterior, one would sooner 
imagine that he was going to deadly conflict than on a hunt- 
ing expedition. About the hind heels of his horse ran the 
hounds, clustered together in a many-hued, undulating pack. 
It was pitiful to contemplate the fate which befell any un- 
fortunate dog who took it into his head to linger behind. 
Ilis companion wms forced to drag him along with great 
effort ; and when he had succeeded in this, one of the hunts- 
men who rode in the rear never failed to give him a cut with 
his whip, saying, “To the pack with you!” When we 
emerged from the gates, papa ordered us and the huntsmen 
to ride along the road, but he himself turned into a field of 
rye. 

The grain harvest was in full swing. The shining yellow 
field, extending farther than the eye could reach, was closed 
in on one side only by a lofty blue forest which seemed to 
me then a very distant and mysterious place, behind which 
the world came to an end, or some uninhabited region began. 
The whole field was covered with shocks of sheaves and with 
people. Here and there amid the tall rye, on some spot 
that had been reaped, the bended back of a reaper was 
visible, the swing of the ears as she laid them between her 
fingers, a woman in the shade, bending over a cradle, and 
scattered sheaves upon the stubble strewn with cornflowers. 
In another quarter, peasants clad only in their shirts, stand- 
ing on carts, were loading the sheaves, and raising a dust in 
the dry, hot fields. The starosta (overseer), in "boots, and 
with his armyak^ thrown on without the sleeves, and tally- 

1 A long, wide coat worn by peasants. 


CHILDHOOD. 


27 


sticks in his hand, perceiving papa in the distance, took off 
his lamb’s-wool cap, wiped his reddish head and beard with 
a towel, and shouted at the women. The sorrel horse which 
papa rode had a light, playful gait; now and then he 
dropped his head on his breast, pulled at the reins, and with 
his heavy tail ])riished away the horse-flies and common flies 
which clung thirstily to him. Two greyhounds with their 
tails curved in the shape of a sickle lifted their legs high, 
and s[)rang gracefully over the tall stubl)le, behind the 
horse’s heels; Milka ran in front, and, with head bent low, 
was watching for the scent. The conversation of the peo- 
ple, the noise of the horses and carts, the merry whistle of 
the quail, the hum of insects which circled in motionless 
swarms in the air, the scent of the wormwood, the straw, and 
the sweat of the horses, the thousands of varying hues and 
shadows which the glowing sun poured over the bright- 
3 'ellow stubble field, the blue of the distant forest and the 
pale lilac of the clouds, the white spider’s webs which floated 
through the air or lay upon the stubble, — all this 1 saw, 
heard, and felt. 

When we reached Kalinovoe (viburnum) woods, we found 
the carriage already there, and, beyond all our expectations, 
a cart, in the midst of which sat the butler. In the shade 
we beheld a samovar, a cask with a form of ice-cream, and 
some otlier attractive parcels and baskets. It was impossi- 
ble to make an}’ mistake : there was to be tea, ice-cream, 
and fruit in the open air. At the sight of the cart, we 
manifested an uproarious joy ; for it was considered a great 
treat to drink tea in the woods on the grass, and especially 
in a place where nobody had ever drunk tea before. 

Turka came to this little meadow’-encircled wood, halted, 
listened attentively to papa’s minute directions how to get 
into line, and wliere to sally forth (he never minded these 
directions, however, and did what seemed good to him), un- 
coupled the dogs, arranged the straps in a leisurely manner, 
mounted his horse, and disappeared behind the young lurches. 
The first thing the hounds did on being released was to 
express their joy by wagging their tails, shaking themselves, 
putting themselves in order ; and then, after a little scamper, 
they smelled each other, wagged their tails again, and set off 
in various directions. 

“ Have you a handkerchief?” asked papa. 

I pulled one from my pocket, and showed it to him. 


28 


CIIILDTIOOD. 


“ Well, take that gray dog on your handkerchief ” — 

“ Zhiran? ” 1 inquired with a knowing air. 

“Yes; and run along the road. When yon come to a 
little meadow, stop ^nd look about you ; don’t come back to 
me without a hare.” 

I wound my handkerchief about Zhiran’s shaggy neck, 
and started at a headlong pace for the spot indicated to me. 
Papa laughed and called after me : 

“ Piaster, faster, or you’ll be too late.” 

Zhiran kept halting, pricking up his ears, and listening to 
the sounds of the hunt. 1 had not the strength to drag him 
from the spot, and I began to shout, “Catch him! catch 
liirn 1 ” Then Zhiran tore awa}" with such force that I could 
hardly hold him, and I fell down more than once before I 
reached my post. Selecting a shady and level place at the 
root of a lofty oak, I lay down on the grass, placed Zhiran 
beside me, and waited. My imagination, as alwa^^s happens 
in such cases, far outran reality. I fancied that 1 was 
already coursing my third hare, when the first hound burst 
from the woods. Turka’s voice rang loudly and with anima- 
tion through the forest ; the hound was whimpering, and its 
voice was more and more frequently audible. Another voice, 
a bass, joined in, then a third and a fourth. These voices 
ceased, and again they interrupted each other. The sounds 
grew gradually louder and more unbroken, and at length 
merged into one ringing, all-pervading roar. The meadow- 
encircled clump of trees was one mass of sound, and the 
hounds were burning with impatience. 

When I heard that, I stiffened at my post. Fixing my 
eyes upon the edge of the woods, 1 smiled foolishly ; the per- 
spiration poured from me in streams, and although the diops 
tickled me as they ran down my chin, I did not wipe them 
off. It seemed to me that nothing could be more decisive 
than this moment. This attitude of expectancy was too un- 
natural to last long. The hounds poured into the edge of 
the woods, then they retreated from mo ; there was no hare. 
I began to look about. Zhiran was in the same state ; at 
first he tugged and whimpered, then lay down beside me, 
put his nose upon my knees and became quiet. 

Around the bare roots of the oak tree under which I sat, 
upon the gray, parched earth, amid the withered oak-leaves, 
acorns, dry moss-grown sticks, yellowish-green moss, and 
the thin green blades of grass which pushed their way through 


CHILD HOOD. 


29 


here and there, ants swarmed in countless numbers. They 
h 11 r lied after each other along the thorny paths which they 
had themselves prepared ; some with burdens, some unladen. 
] jiicked up an acorn, and obstructed their way with it. You 
should have seen how some, despising the obstacle, climbed 
over it, while others, esiiecially those who had loads, quite 
lost their heads and did not know what to do; they halted 
and hunted for a path, or turned back, or crawled upon my 
hand from the acorn, with the intention, apparently, of get- 
ting under tlie sleeve of my jacket. I was diverted from 
tiiese interesting observations by a butterfly with yellow 
wings, which hovered before me in an extremely attractive 
manner. No sooner had 1 directed my attention to it than 
it flew away a cou[)le of paces, circled about a nearly wilted 
liead of wild white clover, and settled uiion it. 1 do not 
know whether it was warming itself in the sun, or drawing 
the sap from this weed, but it was evident that it was enjoy- 
ing itself. Now and then it fluttered its wings and pressed 
closin' to the flower, and at last became perfectly still. I 
propped my head on both hands and gazed at it with pleasure. 

All at once, Zhiran began to howl, and tugged with such 
foi’ce that 1 nearly fell over. I glanced about. Along the 
skirt of the woods skipped a hare, with one ear drooping, 
the other raised. The blood rushed to my head, and, for- 
getting every thing for the moment, I shouted something in 
a wiki voice, loosed my dog, and set out to run. But no 
sooner had I done this than my repentance began. The hare 
squatted, gave a leap, and I saw no more of him. 

But what was my mortification, when, following the 
hounds, who came baying down to the edge of the woods, 
Turka made his ajtpearance from behind a bush ! He per- 
ceived my mistake (which consisted in not hoklntg out)^ and 
casting a scornful glance upon me, he merely said, “ 
bavin ! But 3 'ou should have heard how he said it. It 
would have been pleasanter for me if he had hung me to 
his saddle like a hare. 

For a long time I stood in deep despair on the same spot. 
I did not call the dog, and only repeated as 1 beat my thighs, 
“ Heavens, what have 1 done ! ” 

I heard the hounds coursing in the distance ; I heard them 
give tongue on the other side of the wood-island, and kill a 
hare, and Turka summoning the dogs with his long whip : 
but still 1 did not stir from the spot. 

1 Master. 


30 


CHILDHOOD, 


CHAPTER VIII. 

GAMES. 

The hunt was at an end. A cloth was spread under the 
shadow of the young birches, and the whole company seated 
themselves around \t. Gavrilo, the butler, having trodden 
down the lush green grass about him. wiped the plates, and 
emptied the baskets of the plums and peaches wrapped in 
leaves. The sun shone through the green branches of the 
young birdies, and cast round quivering gleams upon the 
patterns of the tablecloth, upon my feet, and even upon 
Gavrilo’s polished perspiring head. A light breeze flutter- 
ing through the leaves, upon my hair and my streaming face, 
was veiy refreshing. 

When we had divided the ices and fruits, there was noth- 
ing more to lie done at the cloth ; and in spite of the sun’s 
scorching, oblique rays, we rose and began to play. 

“Now, what shall it be?” said Liubotchka, blinking in 
the sun, and dancing up and down upon the grass. “Let 
us have Robinson ! ” 

“No, it’s tiresome,” said Volodya, rolling lazily on the 
turf, and chewing a leaf : “ it’s eternally Robinson ! If you 
insist upon it, though, let’s build an arbor.” 

Volodya was evidently putting on airs : it must have been 
because he was proud of having ridden the hunter, and he 
feigned to be very much fatigued. Possibly also, he had 
too much sound sense, and too little force of imagination, 
to fully enjoy a game of Robinson. This game consisted in 
acting a scene from the “ Robinson Suisse,” ^ which we had 
read not long before. 

“ Now, please . . . why won’t j’ou do this to please us? ” 
persisted the girls. “ You shall be Cliarles or Ernest or the 
father, whichever you like,” said Katenka, trying to pull him 
from the ground by the sleeves of his jacket. 

^The Swiss Family Robinson. 


CHILDHOOD. 


31 


‘^T really don’t want to: it’s tiresome,” said Volodya, 
stretching liimself and smiling in a self-satisfied way. 

“ It’s better to stay at home if nobody wants to play,” 
declared Liul)otchka through her tears. 

She was a horrible cry-baby. 

“ Come along, then ; only please don’t cry. I can’t stand 
it.” 

Volod 3 m’s condescension afforded us but very little satis- 
faction : on the contrary, his bored and lazy look destro^^ed 
all the illusion of the play. When we sat down on the 
ground, and, imagining that we were setting out on a fishing 
expedition, began to row with all our might, Volodya sat 
with folded hands, and in an attitude which had nothing in 
common with the attitude of a fisherman. I remai-ked on 
this to him ; but he retorted that we should gain nothing 
and do no good by either a greater or less flourish of hands, 
and should not travel an\' farther. 1 involuntarily agreed 
with him. AVhen I made believe go hunting with a stick on 
my shoulder, and took my wa}* to the woods, Volodya la}^ 
down flat on his back, with his hands under his head, and 
said it was all the same as though he went’ too. Such 
speeches and behavior cooled us towards this game, and 
were extremely unpleasant ; the more so, as it was impossible 
not to admit in one’s own mind that Volodyo was behaving 
sensibly. 

I knew myself that not only could I not kill a bird with 
mv stick, but that it was impossible to fire it off. That was 
wiiat the game consisted in. If you judge things in that 
fashion, then it is impossible to ride on chairs ; but, thought 
I, Volodya himself must remember how, on Jong winter 
evenings, we covered an armchair with a cloth, ond made a 
calash out of it, while one mounted as coachman, the other 
as footman, and the girls sat in the middle, with thief* chairs 
for a troika of horses, and we set out on a journey- And 
how many adventures happened on the way ! and how mer- 
rily and swiftly the winter evenings passed i Judging by the 
present standard, there would be no games. And if there 
are no games, what is left? 


32 


CIIILDUOOD. 


CHAPTER IX. 

SOMETHING IN THE NATURE OF FIRST LOVE. 

Pretending that she was plucking some American fruits 
from a tree, Liubotchka tore off a leaf with a huge caterpillar 
Oil it, tiling it on the grouiul in terror, raised her hands, and 
s[)i‘ang back as though she feared that something would 
siiout out of it. The game came to an end : we all flung 
ourselves down on the ground with our heads together, to 
gaze at this curiosity. 

1 looked over Katenka’s shoulder : she was trying to pick 
the worm up on a leaf which she placed in its way. 

1 had observed that many girls have a trick of twisting 
their shoulders, endeavoring by this movement to bring back 
their low-necked dresses, which have slipped down, to their 
pro[)er place. I remember that this motion alwa^’s made 
Mimi angry: “It is the gesture of a chambermaid,” she 
said. Katenka made this motion as she bent over the 
worm, and at the same moment the wind raised her kerchief 
from her white neck. Her little shoulder was within two 
fingers’ length of my lips. I no longer looked at the worm : 
I stared and stared at Katenka’s shoulder, and kissed it with 
all my might. She did not turn round, but I noticed that 
her cheeks crimsoned up to her A^ery ears. Volod} a did not 
raise his liead, but said scornfully : 

“ What tenderness ! ” 

The tears came into my eyes. 

I never took my eyes from Katenka. I had long been 
used to her fresh little blonde face, and I had always loved 
it. But now I began to observe it more attentivel}', and I 
liked it still better. When we went back to the grown-up 
people, papa announced, to our great joy, that, at mamma’s 
recpiest, our departure was postponed until the following day. 

We rode back in company with the carriage. Volodya 
and I, desirous of outdoing each other in the art of horse- 


CniLDTlOOD. 


33 


maiiship and in boldness, galloped around it. My shadow 
was longer than before, and, judging from it, 1 imagined 
that I must present the effeet of a very tine rider; but Ihe 
feeling of self-satisfaction which I experienced was s[)eedily 
destroyed by the following circumstance. Desiring to com- 
idetely fascinate all who rode in the carriage, 1 fell behind a 
little ; then, with the assistance of my whip, I started my 
horse forward, and assumed an attitude of careless grace, 
with the intention of dashing past them like a whirlwind on 
the side where Katenka sat. The only point I was in doubt 
about was : would it be better to gallop b}’ in silence, or to 
ery out? But the hateful horse came to a standstill so un- 
expectedly when he came up with the earriage-horses, that I 
flew over the saddle upon his neck, and almost tumbled off 
his back. 


34 


CHILD HOOD. 


CHAPTER X. 

WIIAT KIND OF A MAN W .S MY FATHER ? 

He was a man of the last century, and possessed that 
indetinable chivalry of character which was common to the 
youth of that peHod. He looked with disdain upon the 
people of the present century ; and this view proceeded 
quite as much from innate pride as from a secret feeling of 
vexation that he could not wield that influence or enjoy those 
successes in our age which he had eujo^^ed in his own. His 
two principal passions in life were cards and women : he 
had won several millions during his lifetime, and had had 
liaisons with an innumerable number of women of all classes. 

A tall, stately figure, a strange, tripping gait, a habit of 
shrugging his shoulders, little eyes which were alwa3^s smil- 
ing, a large aquiline nose, irregular lips which closed awk- 
wardly but agreeably, a defect in speech resulting in a lisp, 
and a large bald spot extending all over his head — such 
was my father’s appearance from the time I first recollect 
him, — an appearance by means of which he not only man- 
aged to make the reputation of a man d bonnes fortunes^ but 
to be so, and to please every one without exception, — people 
of all classes and conditions, and especially those whom 
he desii’ed to please. 

He understood how to get the upper hand in all his deal- 
ings. AYithout ever having been a member of the very high- 
est society^ he had always had intercourse with individuals 
belouging to that circle, and of such a sort that he was 
always respected. He understood that extreme measure of 
pride and self-confidence which, without offending others, 
raised him in the estimation of the world. He was original, 
though not always, and employed his originality as an in- 
strument which in some cases takes the place of worldly 
wisdom or wealth. Nothing in the world could arouse in 
him a sensation of wonder: however brilliant his position, 
he seemed born to it. He understood so well how to hide 


CniLDUOOD. 


85 


from others, and put away from himself, that dark side of 
life which is familiar to every one, and filled with petty 
vexations and griefs, that it was impossible not to envy him. 

He was a connoisseur of all things which afford comfort 
or pleasure, and understood how to make use of them. His 
hobb^' was his brilliant connections, which he possessed 
partly through my mother’s relations and partly thi-ough the 
comi)anions of his ^^outh, with whom he was secretly en- 
raged, because they had all risen to high oflicial positions, 
while he had remained only a retired lieutenant in the 
Guards. Like all men who liave once been in the army, he 
did not know how to dress fashionably : nevertheless, his 
dress was original and elegant. His clothes were always 
very loose and light, his linen of the most beautiful qualitv, 
his large cuffs and collars were turned back. And it all 
suited his tall figure, his muscular build, his bald head, and 
his calm, self-confident movements. He was sensitive, and 
even easily moved to tears. Often, vdien he came to a 
pathetic place while reading aloud, his voice would begin to 
tremble, the tears would come ; and he would drop the book 
in vexation. He loved music, and sang, to his own piano 
accompaniment, the romances of his friend A., g.ypsy songs, 
and some airs from the operas ; but he did not like scientific 
music, and said frankly, without heeding the general opin- 
ion, that Beethoven’s sonatas drove him to sleep and ennui; 
and that he knew nothing finer than “ Wake the young girl 
not,” as sung by Madame Semenova, and “ Not alone,” as 
gypsy Taniuscha sang it. His nature was one of those to 
whose good deeds a public is indispensable. And he only 
considered that good which was so reckoned by the public. 
God knows whether he had any moral convictions. His life 
was so full of passions of every sort, that he never had any 
time to make an inventory of them, and he was so happy in 
his life that he saw no necessity for so doing. 

• A fixed opinion on things generally, mid unalterable prin- 
ciples, formulated themselves in his mind as he grew older 
— but solely on practical grounds. Those deeds and that 
manner of life which procured him happiness and pleasure, 
he considered good ; and he thouglit that every one should 
always do the same. He talked very persuasively ; and this 
quality, it seems to me, heightened the flexibility of his 
pi’inciples : he was capnble of depicting tlie same act as a 
charming bit of mischief, or as a piece of low-lived villany. 


36 


CHILDHOOD. 


CHAPTER XI. 

OCCUPATIONS IN THE LIBRARY AND THE DRAWING-ROOM. 

It was already dark when we reached home. Mamma 
seated herself at the piano, and w^e children fetched our 
paper, pencils, and paints, and settled ourselves about the 
round table at our drawing. I had only blue paint ; never- 
theless, I undertook to depict the hunt. After representing, 
in very lively style, a blue boy mounted on a blue horse, and 
some blue dogs, I was not quite sure whether I could paint 
a blue hare, and ran to papa in his study to take advice on 
the matter. Papa was reading ; and in answer to my ques- 
tion, “Are there any blue hares?’’ he said, without raising 
his head, “Yes, my dear, there are.” I w^ent back to the 
round table, and painted a blue hare ; then I found it neces- 
sary to turn the blue hare into a bush. The bush did not 
please me either ; I turned it into a tree, and the tree into 
a stack of hay, and the haystack into a cloud ; and finally 
I blotted my whole paper so with blue paint, that I tore it 
up in vexation, and went to dozing in the big arm-chair. 

Mamma was playing the Second Concerto of Field — her 
teacher. I dreamed, and light, bright, transparent recollec- 
tions penetrated my imagination. She played Beethoven’s 
Sonata Patheiique, and my memories became painful, dark, 
burdensome. Mamma often played those two pieces ; there- 
fore I well remember the feeling which they aroused in me. 
Jt resembled memories: but memories of what? I seemed 
to remember something wdiich had never happened. 

Opposite me was the door into the. study, and I saw Yakov 
enter, and some other people wdth caftans and beards. 
The door immediate!}" closed behind them. “ Now business 
has begun ! ” I thought. It seemed to me that nothing in 
the world could be more important than the business which 
was being transacted in that study ; this idea of mine w’as 
confirmed by the fact tliat all who entered the study door 


CHILDHOOD. 


87 


did so on tiptoe and exchanging whispers. Papa’s loud 
voice was audible ; and the smell of cigars, which always 
attracted me very much, I know not why, was perceptible. 
All at once, I was much surprised in my half slumber by 
the familiar squeak of boots in the butler’s pantry. Karl 
Ivanitch walked up to the door on tiptoe, but with a gloomy 
and decided countenance, and some papers in his hand, 
and knocked lightly. He was admitted, and the door was 
slammed again. 

“ Some misfortune must have happened,” I thought. 
“Karl Ivanitch is angry: he is ready for any thing.” 

And again I fell into a doze. 

But no misfortune had occurred. In about an hour, the 
same squeaking boots woke me up. Karl Ivanitch emerged 
from the door, wiping away tlie tears which I espied on liis 
cheeks, with his handkerchief, and went up-stairs, muttering 
something to himself. Papa came out after him, and en- 
tered the drawing-room. 

“ Do you know what I have just decided upon? ” he said 
in a gay voice, laying his hand on mamma’s shoulder. 

“ What is it, my dear? ” 

“ I shall take Karl Ivanitch with the children. There is 
room for him in the britchka. They are used to him, and it 
seems that he is very much attached to them ; and seven 
lu'idred ubles a 3'ear does not count for much : and then he 
IS a very good sort of fellow at bottom.” 

I never could understand why papa scolded Karl Ivanitch. 

“ I am veiy glad,” said mamma, “ both for the children’s 
sake and for his : he is a fine old fellow.” 

“If 3'ou could only have seen how much affected he was 
when I told him that he was to keep the five hundred rubles as 
a gift ! But the most amusing thing of all is this account 
which he brought me. It’s worth looking at,” he added 
with a smile, handing her a list in Karl Ivauitch’s hand- 
writing : “it was delightful.” 

This was what the list contained : — 

“ Two fish-hooks for the children, seventy kopeks. 

“ Colored paper, gold binding, a press and stretcher for a 
little box for a present, six rubles fifty-five kopeks. 

“ Books and bows, presents to the children, eight rubles 
sixteen kopeks. 

“ Trousers for Nikolai, four rubles. 

“The gold watch promised by Piotr Alexandrovitch, 


38 


CIIILDTIOOD. 


to be got from Moscow in 18 — , one hnndi'ed and forty 
rubles. 

“Total due Karl Mauer, above his salary, one hundred 
and fifty-nine rubles seventy-nine kopeks.” 

After reading this list, in which Karl Ivanitch demanded 
payment of all the sums which he had expended for presents, 
and even the price of the gifts promised to himself, any 
one would^think that Karl Ivanitch was nothing more than 
an unfeeling, covetous egoist — and he would be very much 
mistaken. 

When he entered the study with this account in his hand, 
and a speech ready prepared in his head, he intended to set 
forth eloquentl}' before papa all that he had endured in 
our house ; but when he began to speak in that touching 
voice, and with the feeling intonations which he usually 
employed when dictating to us, his eloquence acted most 
powerfully on himself ; so that when he reached the place 
where he said, “Painful as it is to me to part from the 
children,” he became utterly confused, his voice trembled, 
and he was forced to pull his checked handkerchief from his 
pocket. 

“Yes, Piotr Alexandritch,” he said through his tears 
(this passage did not occur in the prepared speech) : “I 
have become so used to the children, that I do not know 
what I shall do without them. It will be better for me to 
serve you without salary,” he added, wiping away his tears 
with one hand, and presenting the bill with the other. 

That Karl Ivanitch was sincere when he spoke thus, I can 
affirm with authority, for I know his kind heart ; but how he 
reconciled that account with his words, remains a mystery 
to me. 

“If it is painful for you, it would be still more painful 
for me to part with you,” said papa, tapping him on the 
shoulder. “I have changed my mind.” 

Not long before supper Grischa entered the room. From 
the moment he had come to the house, he had not ceased to 
sigh and weep ; which, according to the opinion of those who 
believed in his power of prophecy, presaged some evil to our 
house. He began to take leave, and said that he should 
proceed farther the next morning. I winked at Volodya, 
and went out. 

“AVhatis it?” 

“ If you want to see Grischa’s chains, let’s go np-stairs to 


CHILDHOOD. 


39 


the men’s rooms immediately. Grischa sleeps in the second 
chamber. We can sit in the garret perfectly well, and see 
every thing.” 

“ ISpleudid ! Wait here ; I’ll call the girls.” 

The girls ran out, and we betook ourselves up-stairs. It 
was settled, not without some disputing, however, who was 
to go first into the dark garret ; and we sat down and waited. 


40 


CHILDHOOD, 


CHAPTER XII. 

GRISCHA. 

The darkness oppressed all of ns : we pressed close to 
each other, and did not speak. Grischa followed us almost 
immediately, with his quiet steps. In one hand he carried 
his staff, in the other a tallow caudle in a brass candlestick. 
We held onr breaths. 

“ Lord Jesus Christ ! Most Holy Mother of God ! Father, 
Son, and Holy Ghost!” he repeated several times, with 
various intonations and abbreviations which are peculiar to 
those only who repeat these words often, as he drew the air 
into his lungs. ^ 

Having placed his staff in the corner, and inspected his 
bed during his prayer, he began to undress. He unfastened 
his old black belt, removed his tattered nankeen smock, 
folded it carefully, and laid it over the back of a chair. His 
face did not now express haste and stupidity, as usual : on 
the contrary, it was composed, melancholy, and even majes- 
tic. His movements were deliberate and thoughtful. 

Clad in his underclothes alone, he sank gently down upon 
the bed, made the sign of the cross over it on all sides, 
and with an evident effort (for he frowned) he adjusted the 
chains beneath his shirt. After sitting there a while and 
anxiously examining several rents in his linen, he rose, 
lifted the candlestick on a level with the shrine in the 
corner, which contained several images, repeating a prayer 
meantime, crossed himself before them, and turned the 
candle upside down. It sputtered and went out. 

The moon, which was almost full, shone in through the 
window, looking towards the forest. The long white" figure 
of the fool was illuminated on one sidf' by the pale, silvery 
rays of the moon : on the other it was in deep shadow ; it 
fell on the floor and walls, and reached to the ceiling in com- 
, pany with the shadows from the window-frame. The watch- 
\ man knocked on the copper plate in the court-yard. 


CHILDHOOD. 


41 


Grischa folded his huge arms across his breast, bent his 
head, sighing heavily, and without intermission, and stood 
in silence before the images ; then he knelt, with some diffi- 
culty, and began to pray. 

At first he softly recited the familiar pra3"ers, merely ac- 
centuating certain words ; then he repeated them, but in a 
loud voice, and with much animation. He began to employ 
his own words, endeavoring, with evident effort, to express 
himself in Slavic style. His words were incoherent but 
touching. He prayed for all his benefactors (as he called 
those who entertained him), among them mamma, and us; 
he prayed for himself, besought God to forgive him his 
grievous sins, and said: ‘'O God, forgive my enemies!” 
He rose with a groan, and, repeating the same words over 
and over, he fell to the ground again, and again rose, not- 
withstanding the weight of the chains, which emitted a harsh, 
sharp sound as they struck the floor. 

Volodya gave me a painful pinch on my foot, but I did 
not even look round : I merely rubbed the spot with one 
hand, and continued to observe all Grischa’s words and 
motions with a sentiment of childish wonder, pity, and rev- 
erence. 

Instead of the merriment and laughter, upon which I had 
reckoned when I entered the garret, I felt a trembling and 
sinking at my heart. 

Grischa remained in this state of religious exaltation for a 
long time, and improvised prayers. He repeated Lord 
have mercy,” several times in succession, but each time with 
fresh force and expression. Then he said: '•‘‘Forgive me, 
Lord; teach me what I should do ; teach me ichat I should do, 
Jjord!” with an expression as though he expected an im- 
mediate response to his words ; then several lamentable groans 
were audible. He rose to his knees, crossed his hands upon 
his breast, and became silent. 

I put my head softly out of the door, and held my breath. 
Grischa did not stir ; heavy sighs forced themselves from his 
breast ; a tear stood in the*' dim pupil of his blind eye, which 
was illuminated by the moon. 

‘‘Thy will be d(me ! he cried suddenly, with an inde- 
scribable expression, fell with his forehead to the floor, and 
sobbed like a child. 

A long time has passed since then ; many memories of the 
past ha^^e lost all signiflcance for me, and have become like 


42 


CHILDHOOD. 


confused visions ; even pilgrim Grischa ha» long ago taken 
his last journey : but the impression which he made upon 
me, and the feeling which he awakened, will never die out 
of my memory. 

O great Christian Griseha ! Thy faith was so strong, 
that thou didst feel the nearness of God ; thy love was so 
great, that thy words poured from thy lips of themselves, — 
thou didst not revise them with thy judgment. And what 
lofty praise didst thou offer to His majesty, when, finding no 
words, thou didst fling thyself to the earth in tears ! 

The emotion with which I listened to Grischa could not 
last long ; in the first place, because my curiosity was satis- 
fied, and, in the second, because my legs were stiff with 
sitting in one position, and I wmnted to join in the general 
whispering and movement which was audible behind me in 
the diy-k garret. Some one caught my hand, and said, 
“ Whose hand is this? ” It was perfectly dark, but I imme- 
diately recognized Katenka by the touch of the hand, and 
by the voice which was just above my ear. 

It was quite without premeditation that I grasped her arm, 
on which the sleeve reached only to the elbow, and raised 
it to my lips. Katenka was evidently surprised at this, and 
pulled her hand away : this movement caused her to strike 
a broken chair which stood in the garret. Grischa raised 
his head, glanced quietly about, repeating a prayer, and 
began to make the sign of the cross on all the corners. 
We ran out of the garret whispering, and making a great 
commotion. 


CniLDHOOD. 


43 


CHAPTER XIII. 

NATALYA SAVISCHNA. 

About the middle of the last century, a plump, red- 
cheeked, barefooted, but merry girl, Nataschka, used to 
run about the court-yard in the village of Khabarovka in a 
tattered dress. My grandfather had taken her iq^-stairs as 
one of grandmother’s female servants, on account of the ser- 
vices of her father Savva, and at his request. Nataschkd, 
as a maid, was distinguished for her gentleness of nature, 
and her zeal. When mamma was born, and a nurse was 
required, this service was intrusted to Nataschka ; and in 
this new career she won both praises and rewards for her 
activitjy faithfulness, and attachment to her j^oung mistress. 

But the powdered head, stockings, and buckles of the 
stout young butler Foka, who, in virtue of his office, was 
often brought in contact with Natalya, captivated her rough 
but loving heart. She even made up her mind to go herself 
to grandfather, and ask permission to marry Foka. Grand- 
father looked upon her request as ingratitude, turned her 
away, and sent poor Natalya to the cattle-farm, in a village 
of the steppe, to punish her. But within six months Na- 
talya was restored to her former duty, since no one could fill 
her place. On returning from banishment, she entered 
grandfather’s presence, threw herself at his feet, and be- 
sought him to restore her to favor and affection, and to for- 
get the folly which had come upon her, and to which she 
swore not to return. And she kept her word. 

From that day Nataschka became Natalya Savischna, and 
wore a cap. All the treasures of love which she i)ossessed 
she transferred to her young mistress. 

When, later on, a governess replaced her with mamma, 
she received the keys of the storehouse, and all the linen and 
provisions were given into her charge. She fulfilled these 
new duties with the same love and zeal. She had always 


44 


cniLDnooD. 


lived on the estate; she saw waste, ruin, robbery, on every 
side, and endeavored by every means in her power to coun- 
teract them. 

When mamma ^narried, desiring in some way to show lier 
gratitude to Natalya Savischna for her labor and attachment 
of twenty years, she had her summoned ; and, expressing in 
the most flattering * terms all her love and obligations, she 
handed her a sheet of stamped paper, which declai’ed that 
Natalya Savischna was a free woman ; and she said that 
wliether the latter should continue to serve in onr house 
or not, she would always receive a yearly pension of three 
hundred rubles. Natal3’a Savischna listened to all this in 
silence ; then taking the document in her own hands, she 
looked angrily at it, muttered something between her lips, 
and flew out of the room, slamming the door behind her. 
Not understanding the cause of this strange behavior, 
mamma, after waiting a little, went to Natalya’s room. She 
was sitting on her chest, with tear-swollen e3"es, twisting her 
handkerchief in her fingers, and intently regarding the 
tattered fragments of her emancipation paper, which were 
scattered over the floor before her. 

“ What is the matter, dearest Natal3m Savischna? ” asked 
mamma, taking her hand. 

“ Nothing, matnschka,” ^ she replied. “ I must be repul- 
sive to 3mu in some wa3^, that 3^011 drive me from the house. 
Well, I will go.” 

She pulled away her hand, and, with difficulty restraining 
her tears, she made a motion to leave the room. Mamma 
detained her, embraced her, and they both w?pt in compan3^ 

From the time when I can recollect an3" thing, I remember 
Natalya Savischna, her love and caresses ; but only now am 
I able to appreciate their worth, — but then it never entered 
my mind to think what a rare and wonderful being that old 
woman was. Not only did she never speak, but she seemed 
never even to think, of herself : her whole life was lOve and 
self-sacrifice. I was so accustomed to her tender, unselfish 
love for us, that I did not even imagine that it could be 
otherwise ; was not in the least grateful to her, and never 
asked myself. Is she happy? Is slie content? 

Sometimes, under the plea of imperative necessit3y T would 
run away from 1113^ lessons to her room, and begin to dream 
aloud, not in the least embari’assed by her presence. Sim 

' Little mother; a term of eiidearmeut. 


CHILDHOOD. 


45 


was always busy over something ; she was either knitting 
a stocking, or turning over the chests with which her room 
was filled, or taking account of the linen, and listening to 
all the nonsense which I uttered; how, “when 1 got to be 
a general, I would marry a wonderful beauty, buy myself a 
sorrel horse, build a glass house, and send for all Karl I van- 
itch’s relatives from Saxony,” and so on ; she would say, 
“Yes, batiuschka,^ yes.” Generally, when I rose and pre- 
pared to take my departure, she opened a blue chest, — on the 
inside of whose cover, as I now remember, there were pasted 
a picture of a hussar, a picture from a pomade-box, and a 
drawing by Volodya, — and took from it a stick of incense, 
lighted it, and said as she waved it about, — 

“ This, my dear, is incense. AYhen your late grandfather 
— may the kingdom of heaven be his ! — went against the 
Turks, he brought this back. This is the last bit,” she 
added with a sigh. 

Positively, there was every thing in the chests with which 
her room was filled. Whatever was needed, the cry always 
was, “ We must ask Natal3’a Savischna ; ” and, in fact, she 
always found the article required, after a little rummaging, 
and said, “ It’s well that I hid it awa3^” In those chests 
were thousands of things which nobody in the house, except 
herself, ever knew or troubled themselves about. 

Once I was angiy with her. This is how it was. I 
dropped the decanter when I was pouring myself some kvas 
at dinner, and spilled it on the tablecloth. 

“ Call Natalya Savischna, that she may take pride in her 
favorite,” said mamma. 

Natal^ui Savischna came, and on seeing the puddle which 
I had made, she shook her head ; then mamma whispered 
something in her ear, and she went out, shaking her finger at 
me. 

After dinner, I was on my way to the hall, and skip- 
ping about in the most cheerful frame of mind, when, all 
at once, Natalya Savischna sprang out from behind tlie 
door, with the tablecloth in her hand, caught me, and, in 
spite of desperate resistance on m3’ part, began to rub my 
face with the wet place, crying, “ Don’t spot the tablecloth, 
don’t spot the tablecloth ! ” I was so offended that I roared 
with rage. 

“ What ! ” I said to m3’self, as I walked up and down the 

y Little father, my dear. 


46 


CHILDHOOD. 


room and gulped down my tears, “ Natalya Savischna, plain 
Ndtulya^ calls me thou^ and strikes me in the face with a wet 
tablecloth to boot, as if I were a servant boy ! This is hor- 
rible ! ’ ’ 

Wlien Natah’a Savischna saw that I was gasping with 
rage, she immediately ran off, and I went on pacing to and 
fro, and meditating how I might pay off that impudent 
Natalya for the insult which she had inflicted on me. 

In a few minutes Natalya Savischna returned, approached 
me timidl}^, and began to exhort me. 

“ Enough, my dear, don’t cry. Forgive me, I was foolish. 
I am in the wrong. You will forgive me, my dove. Here, 
this is for you.” 

From beneath her kerchief she drew a horn of red paper, 
in which were two caramels and one grape, and gave it to 
me with a trembling hand. I had not the strength to look 
the good old woman in the face ; I turned away, took her 
gift, and my tears flowed still more abundantly, but from 
love and shame now, and no longer from anger. 


CniLDIlOOD. 


47 


CHAPTER Xiy. 

PARTING. 

At twelve o’clock on the dny following the events which I 
have described, the calash and britchka stood at the door. 
Nikolai was dressed for travelling ; that is to sa}^, his trou- 
sers were tucked into his boots, and his old coat was veiy 
closely belted. lie stood by the britchka, packing the over- 
coats and cushions under the seat ; when the pile seemed to 
him too high, he seated himself on the cushions, jumped up 
and down, and flattened them. 

“ For Heaven’s sake, Nikolai Dmitritch, can’t we put the 
master’s strong box in? ” said papa’s panting valet, leaning 
out of the calash : “ it is small.” 

“ You should have said so before, Mikhei Ivanitch,” an- 
swered Nikolai quickly and angrily, flinging a parcel with 
all his might on the floor of the britchka. “O Lord, my 
head is going round, and here you come with your box ! ” he 
added, pulling off his cap, and wiping the big drops of per- 
spiration from his burning brow. 

Men-servants in coats, caftans, shirts, without hats, women 
in striped petticoats and striped dresses, with children in 
their arms, and barefooted children stood about the steps, 
stared at the equipages, and talked among themselves. One 
of the post-boys — a bent old man in a winter-cap and arm- 
yak — held in his hand the pole of the calash, moved it back 
and forth, and thoughtfully surveyed its action ; the other, a 
good-looking young fellow, clad only in a white smock with 
shoulder-gussets of red kumatch,^ and a black lamb’s-wool 
cap, which he tilted first over one ear and then over the 
other as he scratched his blonde curls, jilaced his arm3’ak on 
the box, flung the reins there also, and, cracking his braided 
knout, gazed now at his boots, now at the coachmen who 
w^ere greasing the britchka. One of them, after having fin- 

1 A red cottou material. 


48 


CniLBUOOB. 


ishecl his labors, was straining himself and holding the steps ; 
another was bending over the wheel, and carefully greasing 
axle and box, and even smearing it from below in a circle, 
in order that the oil upon his cloth might not be wasted. 
The broken-down post-liorses of various colors stood at the 
fence, and brushed away the flies with their tails. Some of 
them planted their shaggy*, swollen legs far apart, closed 
their eyes, and dozed ; some scratched each other from 
ennui, or nipped the fronds and stalks of the harsh, dark- 
green ferns which grew beside the porch. Several grey- 
hounds breathed heavily as they la}' in the sun ; others got 
into the shade beneath the calash and britchka, and licked 
the tallow around the axles. The whole atmosphere was 
lilled with a kind of dusty mist ; the horizon was of a grayish 
lilac hue, but there was not so much as a tiny cloud in the 
sky. The strong west wind raised pillars of dust from the 
roads and fields, bent the crests of the lofty lindens, and 
the birches in the garden, and bore far away the falling yel- 
low leaves. I sat by the window, and awaited the completion 
of the preparations with impatience. 

When all were assembled around the large table in the 
drawing-room, in order to spend a few minutes together for 
the last time, it never entered my mind what a painful 
moment was awaiting us. The most trivial thoughts wan- 
dered through my brain. I asked myself. Which post-boy 
will drive the calash, and which the britchka? who would 
travel with papa, and who with Karl Ivanitch ? and why was 
it indispensable to wrap me up in a scarf and a long wadded 
overcoat ? 

“Am I so delicate? I shall not freeze. I wish they 
would get through this as quickly as possible ! I want to 
get in and ride off.” 

“To whom shall I give the list of the children’s linen?” 
asked Natalya Savischna, coming in with tear-swollen eyes 
and the list in her hand, as she turned to mamma. 

“ Give it to Nikolai, and come back to say good-by to the 
children.” 

The old woman tried to say something, but suddenly 
paused, covered her face with her handkerchief, and left the 
room with a wave of the hand. 

My heart contracted with pain when I saw that motion ; 
but im))atience to start was stronger than that feeling, and 
1 continued to listen indifferently to papa’s conversation with 


CniLDIIOOD. 


4D 


mamma. They talked of things which evidently interested 
neither of them : What was it necessaiy to purchase for tlie 
house? what was to be said to Princess Sophie and Madame 
Julie? and w'onld the travelling be good? 

Foka entered, and, halting on the threshold, said, “ The 
horses are ready,” in exactly the same tone with which he 
announced, “Dinner is served.” I noticed that mamma 
shuddered and turned pale at this announcement, as though 
she had not expected it. 

Foka was ordered to close all the doors of the room. 1 
w'as very much amused “ at their all hiding themselves from 
somebody.” 

When all sat down, Foka also seated himself on the edge 
of a chair ; but no sooner had he done so than a door 
squeaked, and all glanced round. Natalya Savischna entered 
in haste, and, without raising her eyes, took refuge on the 
same chair with Foka. I seem now to see Foka’s bald head 
and wrinkled, immovable face, and the kind, bent form in the 
cap beneath which the gray hair was visible. They crowded 
together on the one chair, and both felt awkward. 

I remained unconcerned and impatient. The ten seconds 
during which we sat there with closed doors seemed a whole 
hour to me. At length we all rose, crossed ourselves, and 
began to take leave. Papa embraced mamma, and kissed 
her several times. 

“ Phi o ugh, my dear,” said papa. “We are not parting 
forever.” 

“It is painful, nevertheless,” said mamma in a voice 
which quivered with tears. 

When I heard that voice, and beheld her trembling lips 
and her eyes filled with tears, I forgot every thing, and every 
thing seemed to me so sad and miserable and terrible that I 
w^ould rather have run away than have said good-by to her. 
At that moment I realized that when she embraced papa, she 
had already taken leave of us. 

She kissed and crossed Volodya so many times, that, sup- 
posing that she would now turn to me, I stepped forward. 
Jjiit siie continued to bless him and to press him to her bosom. 
P^inally I embraced her, and clinging to her I wept without a 
thought be 3 "ond my grief. 

When we went out to get into the cari'iage, the tiresome 
servants stepped forward in the anteroom to sav^ farewell. 
Their “ Your hand, please, sir,” their noisy kisses on our 


50 


CniLDTIOOD. 


shoulders, and the smell of the tallow on their heads, aroused 
in me a sentiment nearl}^ akin to that of bitterness in irritable 
people. Under the influence of this feeling I kissed Natalya 
Savischna very coldly on her cap when, bathed in tears, she 
bade me farewell. 

It is strange that I can even now see the faces of all those 
servants, and I could draw them with all the most minute 
details, but mamma’s face and attitude have utterly escaped 
my mind ; perhaps because during all that time I could not 
once summon up courage to look at her. It seemed to me 
that if I did so, her sorrow and mine must increase to the 
bounds of impossibility. 

I flung myself first of all into the calash, and placed my- 
self on the back seat. As the back was up, I could see 
nothing, but some instinct told me that mamma was still 
there. 

“ Shall I look at her again, or not? AYell, for the last 
time, then ! ” I said to myself, and leaned out of the calash 
towards the porch. At that moment mamma had come to 
the other side of the carriage with the same intent, and called 
me by name. When I heard her voice behind me, I turned 
round, but I did it so abruptly that we bumped our heads 
together. She smiled mournfull}', and kissed me long and 
warmly for the last time. 

When we had driven several rods, I made up my mind to 
look at her. The breeze raised the blue kerchief which was 
tied about her head ; with bended head, and face covered 
with her hands, she was entering the porch slowly. Foka 
was sustaining her. 

Papa sat beside me, and said nothing. I was choking 
with tears, and something oppressed my throat so that I 
was afraid I should stifle. As we entered the highway, we 
saw a white handkerchief which some one was waving from 
the balcony. I began to wave mine, and this movement 
calmed me somewhat. I continued to cry, and the thought 
that my tears proved my sensitiveness afforded me pleasure 
and consolation. 

After we had travelled a verst, I sat more composedly, 
and began to observe the nearest objects which i)resente(l 
themselves to my eyes, — the hind quarters of the side horse 
which was on my side. I noticed how this piebald animal 
flourished his tail, how he set ohe foot down after the other, 
how the post-boy’s braided knout reached him, and his feet 


CIIILDHOOD. 


51 


began to leap together. I noticed how the harness leaped 
about on him, and the rings on the harness ; and 1 gazed 
until the harness was covered around the tail with foam. I 
began to look about me, upon the undulating fields of ripe 
rye, on the dark waste land, on which here and there ploughs, 
peasants, and mares with their foals were visible ; on the 
verst-stones ; 1 even glanced at the carriage-box to find out 
which post-boy was driving us ; and the tears were not dry 
on my face, when my thoughts were already far from the 
mother whom I had left perhaps forever. But every recol- 
lection led me to the thought of her. I recalled the mush- 
room which I had found the day before in the birch-alley, 
and remembered that Liubotchka and Katenka had disputed 
as to who should pluck it, and I remember how they had 
wept at parting from us. 

I was sorry for them, and for Natalya Savischna, and the 
birch-alley, and Foka. I was even sorry for malicious Mimi. 
I was sorry for every thing, every thing ! But poor mamma f 
And the tears again filled my eyes, but not for long. 


CHILDHOOD. 


CHAPTER XV. 

CHILDHOOD. 

ITappy, happy days of youth which can never be recalled ! 
How is it possible not to love it, to cherish memories of it? 
Those memories refresh and elevate my soul, and serve me 
as the fountain of my best enjoyment. 

— You have run your fill. You sit at the tea-table, in 
your high chair ; you have drunk your cup of milk and sugar 
long ago ; sleep is gluing your eyes together, but you do not 
stir from the spot, you sit and listen. And how can you 
help listening? Mamma is talking with some one, and the 
sound of her voice is so sweet, so courteous. That sound 
alone says so much to my heart! Witli eyes dimmed with 
slumber, I gaze upon her face, and all at once she has become 
small, so small — her face is no larger than a button, but I 
see it just as plainly still. I see her look at me and smile. 
I like to see her so small. I draw my e3'elids still closer 
together, and she is no larger than the little boys one sees in 
the pupils of the eyes ; but I moved, and the illusion was 
destroyed. I close my eyes, twist about, and try in every 
wa}’ to reproduce it, but in vain. 

1 rise, tuck ni}^ feet under me, and settle myself comfort- 
ably in an easy-chair. 

“You will go to sleep again, Nikolinka,” sa3"s mamma; 
“ 3"ou had better go up-stairs.” 

“ I don’t want to go to bed, mamma,” 3^011 reply, and 
sweet, dim fancies fill 3^0111' brain ; the healthy sleep of child- 
hood closes 3^our lids, and in a moment you lose conscious- 
ness, and sleep until they wake you. You feel in 3^0111* 
dreams that somebody’s soft hand is touching 3^011 ; you 
recognize it by that touch alone ; and still sleeping you invol- 
untarily seize it, and press it warmly, so warmly, to 3’our lips. 

Eveiy one has already departed : one candle only burns in 
the drawing-room. Mamma has said that she would wake 


CniLDHOOD. 


53 


me : it is she who has sat clown on the chair in .which I 
am sleeping, and strokes my hair with her wonderfully soft 
hand, and in my ears resounds the dear, familiar voice. 

Get up, my darling, it is time to go to bed.” 

She is not embarrassed by any one’s indifferent glances ; 
she does not fear to pour out upon me all her tenderness and 
love. 1 do not move, but kiss her hand yet more earnestly. 

“ Get up, my angel.” 

She takes me by the neck with her other hand, and her 
slender fingers rouse me and tickle me ; she touches me, and 
I am conscious of her perfume and her voice. All this 
makes me spring up, encircle her neck with my arms, press 
my head to her bosom with a sigh, and say, — 

Oh, dear, dear mamma, how I love you ! ” 

She smiles, with her sad, bewitching smile, takes my head 
in both her hands, kisses my brow, and sets me on her 
knees. 

“So 3 *ou love me ver}^ much?” She is silent for a 
moment, then speaks: “See that you always love me, and 
never forget me. If you lose your mamma, you will not for- 
get her? you will not forget her, Nikolinka?” 

She kisses me still more tenderly. 

“ Stop ! don’t say that, my darling, my precious one ! ” 
I ciy, kissing her knees ; and the tears stream in floods from 
my eyes, — tears of love and rapture. 

After that, perhaps, when you go up-stairs, and stand 
before the images in your wadded dressing-gown, what a 
wonderful sensation you experience wdien you say, “0 Lord ! 
save papa and mamma!” In repeating the prayers wdiich 
my mouth lisped for the first time after my beloved mother, 
tlie love of her and the love of God are united, in some 
strange fashion, in one feeling. 

After your prayer you wrap yourself in the bedclothes, 
with a spirit liglit, bright, and inspiring ; one dream succeeds 
another, but what are they all about? They are indesciib- 
able ; but full of pure love, of hope and earthly happiness. 
You perhaps recall Karl Ivanitch and his bitter lot, the 
only unhappy man I knew, — and you are so sorry for him, 
you love him so, that tears trickle from your eyes, and you 
think, “May God give him happiness; may lie grant me 
power to help liim, to lighten liis sori'ow'.; I am ready to 
sac)‘ific*e every thing for him.” Tiien you thrust your tavorite 
porcelain plaything — a dog and a hare — into the corner of 


54 


CHILDHOOD. 


the down pillow, and it pleases you to think how warm and 
comfortable they will be there. You pray again, that God 
will grant hai)piuess to all, that every one may be content, 
and that the weather to-morrow may be good for walking. 
You turn on the other side ; your thoughts and dreams min- 
gle confusedly, and intertwine, and you fall asleep quietly, 
calmly, with your face still wet with tears. 

Will that freshness, that happy carelessness, that neces- 
sity for love and strength of faith, which you possessed in 
childhood, ever return? Can anytime be better than that 
when the two greatest of virtues — innocent gayety, and 
unbounded thirst for love — were the only requirements in 
life ? 

Where are those burning prayers? Where is that best 
gift of all, those pure tears of emotion? The angel of com- 
fort flew thither with a smile, and wiped away those tears, 
and instilled sweet visions into the uncorrupted imagination 
of infancy'. 

Has life left such heavy traces in my heart thab those 
tears and raptures have deserted me forever? Do the memo- 
ries alone abide? 


CUILBnOOB, 


55 


CHAPTER XVI. 

VEKSES. 

Nearly a month after we removed to Moscow, I was 
sitting up-stairs in grandmamma’s house, at a big table, 
wilting. Opposite me sat the drawing-master, making the 
final corrections in a pencil-sketch of the head of some Turk 
or other in a turban. Volodya was standing behind the 
master, with outstretched neck, gazing over his shoulder. 
This little head was Volodya’s first production in pencil ; and 
it was to be presented to grandmamma that day, which was 
her saint’s day. 

“And you would not put any more shading here?” said 
Volodya, rising on tiptoe, and pointing at the Turk’s neck. 

• “ No, it is not necessary,” said the teacher, laying aside 
the pencil and drawing-pen in a little box with a lock; “it 
is ver}^ good now, and you must not touch it again. Now 
for you, Nikolinka,” he added, rising, and continuing to 
gaze at the Turk from the corner of his eye : “ reveal your 
secret to us. What are yon going to carry to your grand- 
mother? To tell the truth, another head just like this would 
be the best thing. Good-by, gentlemen,” said he, and, 
taking his hat and note, he went out. 

I had been thinking myself, at the moment, that a head 
would be better than what I was working at. When it had 
been announced to us that grandmamma’s name-day was 
near at hand, and that we must jirepare gifts for the occa- 
sion, I had immediately made ip) a couple of verses, hoping 
soon to find the rest. I really do not know how such a 
strange idea for a child entered my mind ; but I remember 
that it })leased me greatly, and that to all questions on the 
subject I replied that I would give grandmamma a present 
without fail, but that I would not tell any one of what it was 
to consist. 

Contrary to my expectations, and in spile ol all my eflorts, 


56 


CUILDnOOD. 


I could not compose any more than the two stanzas which 
I had thought out on the spur of the moment. I began to 
read the poems in our books ; but neither Dmitrief nor 
Derzhavin afforded me any assistance. Quite the reverse : 
they but convinced me more thoroughl}' of my own in- 
capacity. Knowing that Karl Ivanitch was fond of copying 
poetiy, I went to rummaging among his papers on the' sly ; 
and among the German poems I found one Russian, which 
must have been the product of his own pen : 


TO MADAME L. 


Remember me near ; 
Remember me afar; 
Remember me 
Kow and forever; 

Remember even to my grave 
How faithfully I can love.^ 

Petrovskoe, 1828, June 3. 


KARL MAUER. 


This poem, transcribed in a handsome round hand, on a 
thin sheet of note-paper, pleased me because of the touching 
sentiment with which it was penetrated. I immediately 
learned it by heart, and resolved to take it for a pattern.' 
The matter jirogressed much more easil}' then. On the 
name-day a congratulation in twelve verses was read3L and 
as I sat in the schoolroom, I was copying it on vellum paper. 

Two sheets of paper were already ruined ; not because 
I had undertaken to make any alterations in them, — the 
verses seemed to me very line, — but from the third line on, 
the ends began to incline upwards more and more, so that 
it was evident, even at a distance, that it was Avritten 
crookedly-, and was fit for nothing. 

The third sheet was askew like the others ; but I was 
determined not to do any more copying. In my poem I con- 
gratulated grandmamma, wished her many years of health, 
and concluded thus : 

“ To comfort thee we shall endeavor, 

And love thee like our own dear mother.” 

It seemed to be very-good, yet the last line offended my 
ear strangeh'. 

1 It hardly comes under the head of poetry, even in t!ie original. — 'I'liANSi.ATOK. 


CHILDHOOD. 


57 


I kept repeatinpr it to m3^self, and tr^dng to find a rhyme 
instead of “ mother.” ^ “ Well, let it go. It’s better than 

Karl Ivanitch’s, aiyvvvay.” 

So I transcribed the last stanza. Then I read my whole 
composition over aloud in the bedroom, with feeling and ges“ 
ti(*ulations. The verses were entirely lacking in rhythm, but 
I did not pause over them ; the last, however, struck me still 
more powerfully and unpleasantly. I sat down on the bed, 
and began to think. 

Why did 1 write like our oivu. clear mother? She’s not 
here, and it was not necessary to mention her. I love grand- 
ma, it’s true ; I reverence her, but still she is not tiie same. 
Why did I write that? Why have 1 lied? Su[)pose this is 
poetry : it was not necessary, all the same.” 

At this moment the tailor entered with a new jacket. 

Well, let it go,” 1 said, very impatiently, thrust my 
verses under m3" pillow in great vexation, and ran to try on 
my Moscow clothes. 

The Moscow coat proved to be excellent. The cinnamon- 
brown half-coat, with its bronze buttons, was made to fit 
snugly j not as they made them in the countiy. The black 
trousers were also tight ; it was wonderful to see how well 
they showed the muscles, and set upon the shoes. 

“At last I’ve got some trousers with real straps,” I 
thought, quite beside myself with joy, as I surve3"ed my legs 
on all sides. Although the new garments were veiy tight, 
and it was hard to move in them, I concealed the fact from 
eveiTbod3", and declared, that, on the contraiy, I was ex- 
tremely comfortable, and that if there was an3' fault about 
the clothes, it was that the3" were, if an37 thing, a little too 
large. After that I stood for a long time before the glass, 
brushing my copiously pomaded hair : but, try as I would, I 
could not make the tuft where the hair parts on the crown 
lie flat ; as soon as I ceased to press it down with the brush, 
in order to see if it would obey me, it rose, and projected in 
all directions, imparting to my face the most ridiculous ex- 
pression. 

Karl Ivanitch was dressing in another room ; and his blue 
swallow-tailed coat, and some white belongings, were carried 
through the schoolroom to him. The voice of one of grand- 
mamma’s maids became audible at the door which led down- 

1 Mat (mother), as a rh5^me to utyeachat (to comfort), is the difficulty. Nikolai 
tries to lit iu igrat (to play) aud krovat (bed), iu elderly rhymester fashion. 


58 


CHILDHOOD. 


stairs. I went out to see what she wanted. In her hand 
she held a stiiily starched shirt-front, which she told me she 
had brought for Karl Ivanitch, and that she had not slept all 
the previous night, in order that she might get it washed in 
season. I undertook to deliver it, and asked if grandmamma 
had lisen. 

“Yes indeed, sir ! She has already drank her coffee, and 
the protopope ^ has arrived. How line you are ! ” she added, 
glancing at my new suit with a smile. 

This remark made me blush. I whirled round on one foot, 
cracked my fingers, and gave a lea]) ; wishing by this means 
to make her feel that she did not thoroughly appreciate, as 
yet, how veiy grand 1 was. 

When 1 carried the shirt-front to Karl Ivanitch, he no 
longer needed it ; he had [)ut on another, and, bending over 
before the little glass which stood on the table, he was hold- 
ing the splendid ribbon of his cravat with both hands, and 
trying whether his clean-shaven chin would go into it easily 
and out again. After smoothing our clothes down on all 
sides, and requesting Nikolai to do the same for him, he led 
us to grandmamma. I laugh when I remember how strongly 
we three smelt of pomade, as we descended the stairs. 

Karl Ivanitch had in his hands a little box of his own manu- 
facture, Volodya had his drawing, I had my verses ; each 
one had upon his tongue the greeting with which he intended 
to present his gift. At the very moment when Karl Ivanitch 
opened the drawing-room door, the priest was putting on his 
robes, and the first sounds of the service resounded. 

Grandmamma was already in the drawing-room : she was 
standing by the wall, supporting herself on the back of a 
chair, over which she bent, and was praying devoutly ; beside 
her stood papa. He turned towards us, and smiled, as he 
saw ns hide our gifts in haste behind our backs, and halt just 
inside the door, in our endeavor to escape being seen. The 
whole effect of unexpectedness upon which we had counted 
was ruined. 

When the time came to go up and kiss the cross, I sud- 
denly felt that I was under the o»)pressive influence of an 
ill-defined, benumbing timidity, and, realizing that I should 
never have courage to present my gift, I hid behind Karl 
Ivanitch, who, having congratulated grandmamma in the 
choicest language, shifted his box from his right hand to his 

1 Upper priest. 


CHILDHOOD. 


59 


left, handed it to the lady whose name-day it was, and re- 
treated a few paces in order to make way for Volodya. 
Grandmamma api)eared to be in ecstasies over the box, 
whicli had gilt strips pasted on the edges, and expressed 
her gratitude with the most flattering of smiles. It was evi- 
dent, however, tiiat she did not know wdiere to put tlie nox, 
and it must have been for tliis reason that she proposed that 
papa should examine with what wonderful taste it was made. 

After satisfying his curiosity, papa handed it to the proto- 
pope, who seemed exceedingly pleased with this trifle. lie 
dandled his head, and gazed cnrioush" now at the box, and 
again at the artist who could make such a beautiful object. 
Volod}^ produced his Turk, and he also received the most 
flattering encomiums from all quarters. Now it was m3' turn : 
grandmamma turned to me with an encouraging smile. 

Those who have sutfered from shyness know that tliat feel- 
ing increases in direct proportion to the time which elapges, 
and that resolution decreases in an inverse ratio ; that is to 
sa}', the longer the sensation lasts, the more unconquerable 
it becomes, and the less decision there is left. 

The last remnants of courage and determination forsook 
me wdien Karl Ivanitch and Volodya presented their gifts, 
and 1113^ sh3mess I’eached a crisis ; I felt that the blood was 
incessantly rushing from my heart into my head, as though 
one color succeeded another on my face, and that great 
drops of perspiration broke out upon my nose and forehead. 
My ears burned ; I felt a shiver and a cold perspiration all 
over m3' body ; I shifted from foot to foot, and did not stir 
from the spot. 

“Come, Nikolinka, show us what 3'ou have, — a box or 
a drawing,” said papa. There was nothing to be done. 
With a trembling hand, I presented the crumpled, fateful 
parcel ; but my voice utterly refused to serve me, and I 
stood before grandmamma in silence. I could not get over 
the thought, that, in place of the drawing which was ex- 
pected, my worthless verses would be read l)efore every one, 
including the words, like onr which would 

clearl3" prove that I had never loved her and had forgotten 
her. How conve3' an idea of mv sufferings during the time 
w'hen grandmamma began to read m3' ])oem aloud, and when, 
unable to decii)her it, she paused iii the middle of a line in 
order to glance at papa with what then seemed to me a 
mocking smile ; when she did not pronounce to suit mo ; and 


60 


CniLDIlOOD. 


when, owing to her feebleness of vision, she gave the paper 
to papa before she had finished, and begged liim to read it 
all over again from the beginning? It seemed to me that 
she did it because she did not like to read such stupid and 
crookedly written verses, and in order that pai)a might read 
for himself that last line which proved so clearly my lack of 
feeling. I expected that he would give me a fillip on the 
nose with those verses, and say, “You good-for-nolhing 
boy, don’t forget your mother — take that!” But nothing 
of the sort happened : on the contrary, when all was read, 
grandmamma said, “ Charming 1 ” and kissed my brow. 

d'he little box, the drawing, and the verses were laid out 
in a row, beside two cambric handkerchiefs and a snuff-box 
with a portrait of mamma, on the movable table attached to 
the arm-chair in which grandmamma always sat. 

“ Princess Varvara Ilinitchna,” announced one of the two 
hime lackeys who accompanied grandmamma’s carriage. 

Grandmamma gazed thoughtfully at the portrait set in the 
tortoise-shell cover of the snuff-box, and made no reply. 

“ Will your excellency receive her? ” repeated the footman. 


CHILDHOOD, 


61 


CHAPTER XVII. 

PRINCESS KORNAKOVA. 

“Ask her in,” said grandmamma, sitting back in her 
arm-chair. 

The Princess was a woman of about fort 3 ^-five, small, 
fragile, diy and bitter, witli disagreeable grayish-green eyes, 
whose expi-ession plainly contradicted that of the preter- 
naturally sweet pursed-up mouth. Beneath her velvet bon- 
net, adorned with an ostrich plume, her bright red hair was 
visible ; her eyebrows and lashes appeared still lighter and 
redder against the unhealtl^y color of her face. In spite of 
this, thanks to her unconstraiued movements, her tiny hands, 
and a peculiar coldness of feature, her general appearance 
was rather noble and energetic. 

The Princess talked a great deal, and by her distinct enun- 
ciation belonged to the class of people who always speak as 
though some one were contradicting them, though no one 
has uttered a word : she alternately raised her voice and 
lowered it graduall}^, and began all at once to speak with 
fresh animation, and gazed at the persons who were present 
l)ut who took no part in the conversation, as though endeav- 
oring to obtain support by this glance. 

In spite of the fact that the Princess kissed grandmamma’s 
hand, and called her 7na bonne tante incessantly, I observed 
that grandmamma was not pleased with her : she twitched 
her brows in a peculiar manner while listening to her story, 
about the reason why Prince iMikhailo could not come in 
person to congratulate grandmamma, in spite of his ardent 
desire to do so ; and, replying in Russian to the Princess’s 
French, she said, with a singular drawl, “I am very much 
obliged to you, mj^ dear, for your attention ; and as for Prince 
Mikhailo iiot coming, it is not worth mentioning, he always 
has so much to do ; and what pleasure could he find in 
sitting with an old woman? ” 


62 


CHILDHOOD. 


And witbont giving the Princess time to contradict her, 
she went on : 

“ How are yonr children, my dear? ” 

“Thank God, aunt, they are growing well, and studying 
and playing j)ranks, especiall}^ hTirnne. He is the eldest, 
and he is getting to be so wild that we can’t do any thing 
with him; but he’s clever, — a promising boy. — Just im- 
agine, cousin,” she continued, turning exclusively to papa, 
because grandmamma, who took no interest in the IMncess’s 
children, and wanted to brag of her own grandchildren, had 
taken my verses from the box with great care, and was 
beginning to unfold them, — “just imagine, cousin, what he 
did the other day.” And the Princess bent over papa, 
and began to relate something witli gi’eat animation. AVhen 
she had tinished her tale, wliich I did not hear, she imme- 
diately began to laugh, and looking inquiringly at papa, said : 

“That’s a nice kind of boy, cousin? lie deseiwed a 
whipping ; but his caper was so clever and amusing, that I 
forgave him, cousin.’’ 

And, fixing her eyes on grandmamma, the Princess went 
on smiling, but said nothing. 

“Do you beat your children, my dear?” inquired grand- 
mamma, raising her brows significantly, and laying a special 
emphasis on the word beat. 

“Ah, my good aunt,” replied the Princess in a good- 
natured tone, as she cast a swift glance at papa, “ 1 know 
yonr opinion on that point ; but yon must permit me to dis- 
agree with yon in one particular : in spite of all my thought 
and reading, in spite of all the advice which 1 have taken 
on this subject, experience has led me to the conviction, 
that it is indispensable that one should act upon children 
through their fears. Fear is requisite, in order to make any 
thing out of a child ; is it not so, my cousin ? Now, 1 ask 
you, do children fear any thing more than the rod? ” 

With this, she glanced inquiringly at ns, and I confess I 
felt rather uncomfortable at that moment. 

“Whatever yon may say, a bo}’ of twelve, or even one 
of fourteen, is still a child; but a girl is quite another 
matter.” 

“ How lucky,” I thought to myself, “that I am not her 
son ! ’ ’ 

“Yes, that’s all very fine, my dear,” said grandmamma, 
folding up my verses, and placing them under the box, as 


CHILDHOOD. 


63 


thontrh, after that, she considered the Princess unworthy of 
hearing such a production: “that’s all very fine, but tell 
me, i)lease, how you can expect any delicacy of feeling in 
your children after that.” 

And regarding this argument as unanswerable, grand- 
mamma added, in order to put an end to the conversation : 

“ However, every one has a right to his own opinion on 
that subject.” 

The Princess made no reply, but smiled condescendingly, 
thereby giving us to understand that she pardoned these 
strange [)rejudices in an individual who was so much re- 
spected. 

“ Ah, pray make me acquainted witli your young people,” 
slie said, glancing at us, and smiling ])oiitely. 

We rose, fixed our eyes on the Ih-incess’s face, but did 
not in the least know what we ought to do in order to show 
that the acquaintance had been made. 

“ Kiss the Princess’s hand,” said papa. 

“ I beg that you will love your old aunt,” she said, kissing 
Volodya on the hair: “although I am only a distant aunt, 
I reckon on our friendly relations rather than on degrees of 
blood relationship,” she added, directing her remarks chiefly 
to grandmamma ; but grandmamma was still displeased with 
her, and answered : 

“ Y.h ! my dear, does such relationship count for any thing 
nowada^^s ? ’ ’ 

“ This is going to be my young man of the world,” said 
papa, pointing to Volodya ; “ and this is the poet,” he added, 
just as I was kissing the Princess’s dry little hand, and im- 
agining, with exceeding vividness, that the hand held a rod, 
and beneath the rod was a bench, and so on, and so on. 

“ Which? ” asked the Princess, detaining me by the hand. 

“ This little fellow with the tuft on his crown,” answered 
papa, smiling gayly. 

“What does my tuft matter to him? Is there no other 
subject of conversation?” 1 thought, and retreated into a 
corner. 

I had the strangest possible conceptions of beauty. I 
even considered Karl Ivan itch the greatest beauty in the 
world ; but I knew very well that I was not good-looking 
myself, and on this point I made no mistake : therefore 
any allusion to my personal appearance offended me deeply. 

I remember very well, how once — I was six years old 


64 


CHILDHOOD. 


at the time — they were discussing my looks at dinner, and 
mamma was trying to discover something handsome about 
my face : she said 1 had intelligent eyes, an agreeable smile, 
and at last, yielding to papa’s arguments and to ocular 
evidence, she was forced to confess that I was homely ; and 
then, when I thanked her for the dinner, she tapped my cheek 
and said : 

You know, Nikolinka, that no one will love you for your 
face ; therefore you must endeavor to be a good and sensi- 
ble boy.” 

These words not only convinced me that I was not a 
beauty, but also that 1 should, without fail, become a good 
sensible boy. 

In spite of this, moments of despair often visited me; I 
fancied that there was no happiness on earth for a person 
with such a wide nose, such thick lips, and such small gray 
eyes as I had; I besought God to work a miracle, to turn 
me into a beauty, and all I had in the present, or might 
have in the future, I would give in exchange for a handsome 
face. 


GUILD no OB. 


65 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

PRINCE IVAN IVANITCII. 

When the Princess had heard the verses, and had show- 
ered praises upon the author, grandmamma relented, began 
to address her in Frencli, ceased to call her and mij 

dear, and invited her to come to us in the evening, with all 
her children, to which the Princess consented ; and afcer 
sitting a while longer, she took her departure. 

So many visitors came that day with congratulations, that 
the court-yard near the entrance was never free, all the 
morning, from several carriages. 

“Good-morning, cousin,” said one of the guests, as he 
entered the room, and kissed grandmamma’s hand. 

He was a man about seventy years of age, of lofty stature, 
dressed in a military uniform, with big epaulets, from be- 
neath the collar of which a large white cross w^as visible, 
and with a calm, frank expression of countenance. The 
freedom and simplicity of his movements surprised me. 
His face was still notably handsome, in spite of the fact 
that only a thin semicircle of hair was left on the nape of 
the neck, and that the position of his upper lip betrayed the 
lack of teeth. 

Prince Ivan Ivanitch had enjoyed a brilliant career while 
he was still very young at the end of the last century, thanks 
to his noble character, his handsome person, his noteworthy 
bravery, his distinguished and powerPil family, and thanks 
especially to good luck. He remained in the service, and his 
ambition was very speedily so thoroughly gratified that there 
was nothing left for him to wish for in that direction. From 
his eai'liest youth he had conducted himself as if preparing 
himself to occupy tliat dazzling station in the world in which 
fate eventually jilaced him. Therefore, although he encoun- 
tered some disappointments, disenchantments, and bitterness 

1 That its to say, she called her thou. 


66 


CHILDHOOD. 


in liis brilliiint and somewhat vain-glorions life, such as all 
people undergo, he never once changed his usual calm char- 
acter, his lofty manner of thought, nor his well-grounded 
principles of religion and morality, and won universal re- 
spect, which was founded not so much on his brilliant posi- 
tion as upon his firmness and trustworthiness. His mind 
was small ; but, thanks to a [)osition which permitted him to 
look down upon all the vain bustle of life, his cast of thought 
was elevated. He was kind and feeling, but cold and some- 
wliat haught}' in his intercourse with others. This arose from 
the cii'cu instance that he was placed in a position where 
he could be of use to many people, and he endeavored by 
his cold manner to protect himself against the incessant peti- 
tions and appeals of persons wdio only wished to take advan- 
tage of his influence. But this coldness w'as softened b}' the 
condescending courtesy of a man of the very highest society. 

He was cultivated and well read ; but his cultivation 
stopped at what he had acquired in his youth, that is to say, 
at the close of the last century. He had read every thing 
of note which had been written in France on the subject of 
philosophy and eloquence during the eigiiteenth century ; he 
was thoroughly acquainted with all the best products of 
French litei’ature, so that he was able to quote passages 
from Racine, Corneille, Boileau, Moliere, Montaigne, and 
Fenelon, and was fond of doing so ; he possessed a brilliant 
knowledge of mythology, and had studied with profit the 
ancient monuments of epic poetry in the French translations ; 
he had acquired a sufficient knowledge of history from S6gur ; 
but he knew nothing at all of mathematics lieyond arithme- 
tic, nor of physics, nor of contemporary literature ; he could 
maintain a courteous silence in conversation, or utter a few 
commonplaces, about Goethe, Schiller, and Byron, but he 
had never read them. In spite of this French and classical 
cultivation, of wdiich so few. examples still exist, his conver- 
sation W'as simple ; and yet this simplicity concealed his 
ignorance of various things, and exhibited tolerance and an 
agreeable tone. He wuas a great enemy of all originality, 
declaring that originalit}' is the l)ait of people of bad tone. 
Society w'as a necessity to him, w'herever he might be living ; 
wdiether in jVIoscow or abroad, he always lived generously, 
and on certain days received all the town. Flis standing in 
town W'as such that an invitation from him served as a pass- 
port to all drawing-rcjoins, and many young and [)retly 


CniLDTIOOD. 


67 


women willingly presented to liim their rosy cheeks which he 
kissed with a kind of fatherly feeling ; and other, to all ap- 
pearances, very important and respectaljle people were in a 
state of indescribable joy when they were admitted to the 
Prince’s parties. 

Very few people were now left, who, like grandmamma, 
had been members of the same circle, of the same age, 
l)ossessed of the same education, the same view of matters ; 
and for that reason he especially prized the ancient friendly 
connection with her, and always showed her the greatest 
respect. 

1 could not gaze enough at the Prince. The respect 
which every one showed him, his huge epaulets, the par- 
ticular joy which grandmamma manifested at the sight of 
him, and the fact that he alone did not fear her, treated her 
with perfect ease, and even had the daring to address her as 
ma cousiiie^ inspired me with a reverence for him which 
equalled if it did not excel that which 1 felt for grandmamma. 
When she showed him my verses, he called me to him, and 
said, — 

“ Who knows, cousin, but this may be another Derzhavin ? ’” 

Thereupon he pinched my cheek in such a painful manner 
that if I did not cry out it was because I guessed that it 
must be accepted as a caress. 

The guests dispersed. Papa and Volodya went out : only 
the Prince, grandmamma, and I remained in the drawing- 
room. 

‘‘Why did not our dear Natalya Nikolaevna come?” 
asked Prince Ivan Ivanitch suddenly, after a momentary 
silence. 

“ Ah ! mon cliei\'’ replied grandmamma, bending her head 
and lading her hand upon the sleeve of his uniform, “ she 
certainly would have come had she been free to do as 
she wished. She writes to me that Pierre proposed that she 
should come, but that she had refused because they had had 
no income at all this year ; and she writes : ‘ Moreover, there 
is no reason wliy I should remove to Moscow this year with the 
whole household. Liubotchka is still too young ; and as for 
the boys who are to live with you, I am more easy about 
them than if they were to live with me.’ All that is very 
fine ! ” continued grandmamma, in a tone which showed very 
plainly that she did not consider it fine at all. “ The boys 
should have been sent here long ago, in order that they might 


68 


CHILDHOOD. 


learn something, and become accustomed to society. What 
kind of education was it possible to give them in the coun- 
try? Why, the eldest will soon be thirteen, and the other 
eleven. You have observed, cousin, that they arc perfectly 
untamed heie : the}' don’t know how to enter a room.” 

But I don’t understand,” re[)lied the prince : “ why these 
daily complaints of reduced circumstancco? He has a very 
handsome property, and Nataschinka’s Khabarovka, where I 
played in the theatre with you once upon a time, I know as 
well as the five fingers on my own hand. It’s a wonderful 
estate, and it must always bring in a handsome revenue.” 

‘‘ I will tell you, as a true friend,” broke in grandmamma, 
with an expression of sadness: “it seems to me that all 
excuses are simply for the purpose of allowing him to live 
here alone, to lounge about at the clubs, at dinners’, and to 
do God knows what else. But she suspects nothing. You 
know what an angel of goodness she is ; she believes him 
in every thing. He assured her that it was necessary to 
bring the children to Moscow, and to* leave her alone with 
that stupid governess in the country, and she believed him. 
]f he were to tell her that it was necessary to whip the chil- 
dren as Princess Varvara Ilinitchna whips hers, she would 
probably agree to it,” said grandmamma, turning about in 
her chair, with an expression of thorough disdain. “ Yes, 
my friend,” i)ursued grandmamma, after a momentary pause, 
taking in her hand one of the two handkerchiefs, in order to 
wipe away the tear which made its appearance: “I often 
think that he can neither value her nor understand her, and 
that, in spite of all her goodness and love for him, and her 
efforts to conceal her grief, — I know it very well, — she 
cannot be happy with him ; and mark my words, if he does 
not . . 

Grandmamma covered her face with her handkerchief. 

“Eh, my good' friend,” said the Prince reproachfully. 
“ I see that you have not grown any wiser. You are always 
mourning and wee])ing over an imaginary grief. Come, are 
you not ashamed of yourself? I have known him for a long 
time, and I know him to be a good, attentive, and very line 
husband, and, what is the principal thing, a i)erfectly honest 
man.” 

Having involuntarily overheard this conversation which I 
ought not to have heard, I took myself out of the room, on 
tiptoe, in violent emotion. 


CIIILDIIOGD. 


69 


CHAPTER XIX. 

THE IVINS. 

“Volodya! Volodya! the Ivins!” I shouted, catching 
sight from the window of three boys in blue overcoats, with 
beaver collars, who were crossing from the opposite sidewalk 
to our house, headed by their young and dandified tutor. 

The Ivins were related to us, and were of about our own 
age ; we had made t^eir acquaintance, and struck up a 
friendship soon after our arrival in Moscow. 

The second Ivin, Serozha, was a dark-complexioned, curly- 
headed boy, w'ith a determined, turned-up little nose, very 
fresh red lips, which seldom completely covered the upper 
row of his white teeth, handsome dark-blue eyes, and a 
remarkably alert expression of countenance. He never 
smiled, but either looked quite serious, or laughed heartily 
with a distinct, ringing, and very attractive laugh. His 
original beauty struck me at first sight. I felt for him an 
unconquerable liking. It was sutlicient for my happiness to 
see him : at one time, all the powers of my soul were concen- 
trated upon this wish ; when three or four days chanced to 
pass without my having seen him, I began to feel bored and 
sad even to tear . All my dreams, both waking and sleep- 
ing, were of him : when I la3’ down to sleep, I willed to 
dream of him ; when I shut my e^'es, I saw him before me, 
and cherished the vision as the greatest bliss. I could not 
have brought m3\self to confess this feeling to any one in the 
world, muc.h as I prized it. He evidently preferred to play 
with Volod^m and to talk with him, rather than with me, pos- 
sibly because it anno^md him to feel ni}^ restless eyes con- 
stantly fixed upon him, or simply because he felt no sympathy 
for me : but nevertheless I was content ; I desired nothing, 
demanded nothing, and was read}^ to sacrifice eveiy thing for 
him. Besides the passionate attachment with which he in- 
spired me, his presence aroused another feeling iu a no less 
powerful degree, — a fear of paining or offending him in any 


ro 


CHILDHOOD. 


way, or of displeasing him. I felt as much fear for him as 
love, perhaps because his face had a haughty expression, or 
because, despising my own appearance, I valued the advan- 
tage of beauty too highly in others, or, wdiat is most probable 
of all, because this is an infallible sign of love. The lirst 
time Serozha spoke to me, I lost my wits to such a degree 
at this unexpected bliss, that I turned pale, bluslied, and 
could make no reply. He had a bad habit of fixing his eyes 
U[)on some one spot, when he was thinking, and of winking 
incessantly, nt the same time twitching h’s nose and eye- 
brows. Every one thought that this trick spoiled him, but I 
thought it so charming that I involuntarily accpiired the same 
habit ; and a few days after I had become acquainted with 
him, grandmamma inquired. Did my eyes pain me, that J 
was blinking like an owl? Not a word about love was ever 
uttered between us ; but he felt his power over me, and 
exercised it unconsciously but tyrannically in our childish 
intercourse. And, no matter how hard I tried to tell him 
all that was in my mind, I was too much afraid of him to 
resolve on frankness ; I endeavored to seem indifferent, and 
submitted to him without a murmur. At times his influence 
appeared to me oppressive, intolerable ; but it was not in my 
powder to escape from it. 

It saddens me to think of that fresh, beautiful feeling of 
unselfish and unbounded love, wdiich died aw'ay wdthout hav- 
ing found vent, or met with a return. 

It is strange, how, when I was a child, I strove to be like 
a grown-up person, and how, since I have ceased to be a 
child, I have often longed to be like one. 

How many times did this desire not to seem like a child in 
my intercourse wdth Serozha restrain the feeling which wms 
ready to pour forth, and cause me to dissimulate ! I not only 
did not dare to kiss him, which I very much w^anted to do at 
times, to take his hand, to tell him that I was glad to see 
fhm, but I did not even dare to call him Serozha, but kept 
strictly to Sergiei. So it wms settled betw-een us. Every ex- 
pression of sentiment betrayed childishness, and that he who 
permitted himself any thing of the sort w'as still a little hoy. 
Without having, as yet, gone through those bilter trials wliicli 
lead adults to caution and coldness in their intercourse with 
each otner, w^e deprived ourselves of the [)ure enjoyment of 
tender, childish affection, simply through the strange desire to 
imitate growii-vp people. 


CHILD HOOD. 


71 


I met the Ivins in the o,nteroom, exchanged greetings with 
them, and then tlew headlong to grandmamma. 1 announced 
tliat the Ivins had arrived ; and, from my expression, one 
would' have su})posed that this news must render her com- 
pletely happy. Then, without taking my eyes from Serozha, 
1 followed him into the drawing-i-oom, watching his eveiy 
movement. While grandmamma was telling him that he had 
grown a great deal, and fixed her penetrating e 3 ’es upon liim, 
I experienced that sensation of terror and hope which a 
painter must experience when he is awaiting the verdict upon 
his work from a judge whom he respects. 

Herr Frost, the Ivins’ young tutor, with grandmamma’s 
permission, went into the front garden with us, seated liim- 
self on a green bench, crossed his legs picturesquely, plai ing 
between them a cane with a bronze head, and began to smoke 
his cigar with the air of a man who is very well satisfied with 
his owm conduct. 

Herr Frost wuis a German, but a German of a very different 
cut from our good Karl Ivanitch. In the first place, he spoke 
Russian correctl}^ he spoke French with a bad accent, and 
generall}" enjoyed, especiall}^ among tlie ladies, the reputation 
of being a very learned man ; in the second place, he w^ore a 
red mustache, a big rubv pin in his black satin cravat, the 
ends of which were tucked under his suspenders, and light blue 
trousers with spring bottoms and straps ; in the third place, 
he was young, had a handsome, self-satisfied exterior, and 
remarkably fine muscular legs. It was evident that he set a 
particular value on this last advantage ; he considered its 
effect irresistible on members of tlie female sex, and it must 
have been with tliis view that he tried to exhil)it his legs in 
the most conspicuous place, and, whether standing or sitting, 
always put his calves in motion. He was a type of the 3 "oung 
Russian German, who aspires to be a gay fellow, and a ladj^’s 
man. 

It was very lively in the garden. Our game of robbers 
could not have been more successful ; but one circumstance 
came near ruining every thing. Serozha was the robber: as 
he was hastening in pursuit of travellers, he stumbled, and 
in full flight struck his knee with so mucli force against a 
tree that 1 thought he had shivered it into s[)linters. in siiite 
of the fact that I was the gendarme, and that my duty con- 
sisted in capturing him, I approached, and sympathetically 
inquired whether he had hurt himself. Serozha got angry 


72 


CHILDHOOD. 


with me : he clinched his fists, stamped his foot, and in a 
voice which plainly betrayed that he had injured himself 
badly, he shouted at me, — 

‘‘ Well, what’s this? After this we’ll have no more games ! 
Come, why don’t 3^011 catch me? why don’t you catch me? ” 
he repeated several times, glancing sidewa3"s at Volodya and 
the elder Ivin, wdio, in their character of travellers, were leap- 
ing and running along the path ; and all at once he gave a 
shriek, and rushed after them with a loud laugh. 

1 cannot describe how this heroic conduct impressed and 
captivated me. In spite of the terrible pain, he not only did 
not cry, but he did not even show that he was hurt, and 
never for a moment forgot the game. 

Shortly after this, when llinka Grap also joined our com- 
pany, and we went up-stalrs to wait for dinner, Serozha had 
another opportunity of enslaving and amazing me with his 
marvellous manliness and firmness of character. 

llinka Grap was the son of a poor foreigner who had once 
lived at my grandfather’s, was indebted to him in some way, 
and now considered it his imperative duty to send his son to 
us very often. If he supposed that an acquaintance with 
us could afford an}' honor or satisfaction to his son, he was 
entirely mistaken ; for we not only did not make friends with 
llinka, but we onl}' noticed him when w'e wanted to make 
fun of him. llinka Grap was a thin, tall, pale bo}' of thir- 
teen, with a bird-like face, and a good-naturedly submissive 
expression. He was very poorly dressed, but his hair was 
always so excessively greased that we declared that, on sunny 
daNs, Grap’s pomade melted and trickled down under his 
jacket. As I recall him now, I find that he was very willing 
to be of service, and a very quiet, kind boy ; but at that 
time he appeared to me as a contemptible being, whom it 
was not necessary to pity or even to think of. 

When the game of robbers came to an end, we went up- 
stairs and began to cut capers, and to show off various gym- 
nastic tricks before each other, llinka watched us with a 
timid smile of admiration, and when we jiroposed to him to 
do the same, he refused, saying that he had no strength at 
all. Serozha was wonderfully charming. He took off his 
jacket. His cheeks and eyes were blazing ; he laughed in- 
cessantly, and invented new tricks ; he leaped over three 
chairs placed in a row, trundled all over the room like a 
wheel, stood on his head on Tatischef’s lexicon, which he 


CHILDHOOD. 


73 


placed in the middle of the room for a pedestal, and at the 
same time cnt such funny capers with his feet that it was 
impossible to refrain from laughing. After this last perform- 
ance he became thoughtful, screwed up his eyes, and went 
up to lliuka with a perfectly sober face. “ Try to do that ; 
it really is not difficult.” Grap, perceiving that general 
attention was directed to him, turned red, and declared, in 
a scarcely audible voice, that he could do nothing of the 
kind. 

‘‘And why won’t he show off anyway? What a girl he 
is ! he must stand on his head.” 

And Serozha took him by the hand. 

“You must, you must stand on your head!” we all 
shouted, surrounding Ilinka, who at that moment was visibly 
terrified, and turned pale ; then we seized his arms, and 
dragged him to the lexicon. 

Let me go. I’ll do it myself! Y^ou’ll tear my jacket,” 
cried the unhappy victim. But these cries of despair im- 
parted fresh animation to us ; we were dying with laughter ; 
the green jacket was cracking in eveiy seam. 

Volodya and the eldest Ivin bent his head down and placed 
it on the dictionary ; Serozha and I seized the poor boy’s 
thin legs, which he flourished in all directions, stripped up 
his trousers to the knee, and with great laughter turned them 
up ; the youngest Ivin preser\ ed the equilibrium of his whole 
body. 

After our noisy laughter, we all became suddenly silent ; 
and it was so quiet in the room, that the unfortunate Grap’s 
breathing alone was audible. At that moment I was hy no 
means thoroughl}^ convinced that all this was so very laugh- 
able and amusing. 

“ There’s a fine fellow, now,” said Serozha, slapping him. 

Ilinka remained silent, and in his endeavor to free himself 
flung his logs out in all directions. In one of these des- 
perate movements, he struck Serozha in the eye with his heel 
in such a painful manner, that Serozha immediately released 
his leg, clasped his own e3"e, from which the unbidden tears 
were streaming, and pushed Ilinka with all his might. Ilinka, 
being no longer supported by us, went down on the floor with 
a crash, like some lifeless object, and all he could utter for 
his tears was : 

“ Why do 3^011 tyrannize over me so? ” 

The woful figure of poor Ilinka, with his tear-stained face. 


74 


CHILDHOOD. 


disordered hair, and his tiicked-up trousers, under which his 
dirty boot-legs were visible, impressed us : we did not speak, 
and we tried to smile in a constrained fashion. 

Serozha was the first to recover himself. 

“ There’s a woman, a bawler,” he said, pushing him light- 
ly with his foot: it’s impossible to joke with him. Come, 
enough of that; get up.” 

“ 1 told you that you were a good-for-nothing little boy,” 
said Iliuka angrily, and turning away he sobbed lolldl3^ * 

“What! 3^011 use your heels, and then scold! ” screamed 
Serozha, seizing the lexicon, and swinging it over the head 
of the wretched boy, who never thought of defending himself, 
and only covered his head with his hands. 

“There! there! Let’s drop him, if he can’t understand 
a joke. Let’s go down-stairs,” said Serozha, laughing in an 
unnatural way. 

I gazed with S3mipathy at the poor fellow, who lay on the 
floor, hiding his face on the lexicon, and crying so that it 
seemed as if he were on the point of dynug of the convul- 
sions which shook his whole body. 

“ Hey, Sergiei ! ” 1 said to him, “ why did you do that? ” 

“ That’s good ! I didn’t cry, I hope, when I cut my knee 
nearly to the bone to-day.” 

“Yes, that’s true,” 1 thought; “ Ilinka is nothing but a 
bawler ; but there’s Serozha, he is so brave. What a manly 
fellow he is!” 

I had no idea that the poor boy was crying, not so much 
from physical pain, as from the thought that five boys, 
whom he probably liked, had all agreed, without any cause, 
in hating and persecuting him. 

I really cannot explain to mvself the cruelty' of this con- 
duct. AVhy did I not go to him, protect him, comfort him? 
What had become of that sentiment of pity, wliich had for- 
merly made me cry violently at the sight of a young daw 
which had been thrown from its nest, or a puppy which was 
to be thrown out of the garden, or a chicken which the cook 
was carrying off for soup ? 

Had this beautiful feeling been destroyed in me, by love 
for Serozha, and the desire to appear as manly in his sight 
as he was himself? That love, and that desire to appear 
manly, were not enviable (pialities. They were the cause of 
the only dark spots in the pages of my childish memories. 


CHILDHOOD. 


75 


CHAPTER XX. 

THE GUESTS ASSEMBLE. 

Judging from the special activity perceptible in the pantry, 
the brilliant illumination which imparted a new and festive 
aspect to objects in the drawing-room and salon, which had 
long been familiar to me, and particularly judging from the 
fact that Prince Ivan Ivanitch would not have sent his music 
for nothing, a large number of guests were expected for 
the evening. 

I ran to the window at the sound of every passing car- 
riage, put the palms of my hand to my tempUs and against 
the glass, and gazed into the street with impatient curiosity. 
Through the darkness, which at first covered all objects 
from the window, there graduall}" appeared, across the way, 
a long familiar shop, with a lantern ; in an oblique line, a 
large house with two lighted windows on the lower floor ; in 
the middle of the street some Vanka^^ with two passengers, 
or an empty calash returning home at a foot-pace ; but now 
a carriage drove up to the porch, and in the full conviction 
that it was the Ivins, who had promised to come early, I ran 
down to meet them in the ante-room. Instead of the Ivins, 
two ladies made their appearance behind the liveried arm 
which opened the door ; one was large, and wore a blue 
cloak with a sable collar ; the other, wlio was small, was all 
.wrapped up in a green shawl, beneath which her little feet, 
shod in fur boots, alone were visible. Paying no attention 
to my presence in the ante-room, although I considered it 
my duty to make my bow when these persons appeared, the 
little one walked up to the big one, and halted in front of 
her. The big one unwound the kerchief which covered the 
little one’s head, unbuttoned her cloak, and when the liveried 
footman took charge of .these things, and pulled off her little 
fur boots, there aiqieared from this much-wrapped-up iiidi- 

^ Local tuna for a poor rustic driver, who enters service for the winter in town. 


76 


CUILDHOOD. 


vidiml, a wonderful twelve-year-old little girl, dressed in a 
low-necked white muslin frock, white pantalettes, and tin}' 
black slip[)ers. There was a black velvet ribbon on her little 
white neck ; her head was a mass of dark chestnut curls, 
which suited her lovely face admirably, and fell upon her 
white shoulders behind so beautifully, that I would not have 
believed Karl Ivahitch himself if he had told me that they 
curled so because they had been twisted up in bits of “ The 
Moscow Gazette” ever since the morning, and pinched with 
hot irons. She seemed to have been born with that curly 
head. 

A striking feature of her face was her unusually large, 
prominent, half-closed eyes, which formed a strange but 
agreeable contrast to her small mouth. Her lips were tightly 
closed; and her eyes had such a serious look, and the gen- 
eral expression of her face was such, that you would not look 
for a smile on it ; and therefore a smile was all the more 
enchanting. 

I crept to the door of the hall, endeavoring to remain 
unperceived, and decided that it would be well to walk back 
aud forth feigning meditation, and that I was not aware that 
guests had arrived. AVhen they had traversed half the 
apartment, I apparently came to myself, made my bow, and 
informed them that grandmamma was in the drawing-room. 
Madame Valakhina, whose face pleased me extremely, espe- 
cially because I discerned in it a strong resemblance to her 
daughter Sonitchka, nodded graciously to me. 

Grandmamma appeared to be very glad to see Sonitchka : 
she called her close to her, adjusted one of her curls which 
had fallen over her forehead, and, gazing attentively at her 
face, she said, “What a charming child!” Sonitchka 
smiled and blushed so prettily that I blushed also as I looked 
at her. 

“I hope you will not be bored here, my little friend,” 
said grandmamma, taking hold of her chin, and raising her 
little face. “ I beg that you will be merry and dance as 
much as possible. Here is one lady and two cavaliers,” she 
added, turning to Madame Valakhina, and touching me with 
her hand. 

This bringing us together pleased me so much that it made 
me blush again. 

Conscious that my shyness was increasing, and hearing 
the noise of another carriage as it drove up, 1 deemed it best 


CHILDHOOD. 


77 


to make a retreat. In the ante-room I found Princess Kor- 
nakova with her son and an incredible number of daughters. 
The daughters were all exactly alike in countenance, — they 
resembled the Princess, and were ugly : therefore no one of 
them arrested my attention. As they took off their cloaks, 
and shook out their trains, they all began suddenl}^ to talk in 
thin little voices as they fussed and laughed at something — 
probably because there were so man}" of them. Etienne was 
a tall, fleshy lad of fifteen^ with a bloodless face, sunken 
eyes with blue circles beneath them, and hands and feet 
wdiich were enormous for his age : he was awkward, had a 
rough and disagreeable voice, but appeared very well satis- 
fied with himself, and according to my views he was precisely 
the sort of boy who gets whipped with a switch. 

We stood for quite a while opposite each other, without 
uttering a word, examining each other attentively. Then we 
approached a little nearer, apparently with the desire to kiss 
each other, but we changed our minds for some reason or 
other after we had looked in each other’s eyes. When the 
dresses of all his sisters rustled past us, I inquired, for the 
sake of beginning the conversation, whether they were not 
crowded in the carriage. 

I don’t know,” he answered carelessly, “for I never 
ride in the carriage, because just as soon as I take my seat I 
begin to feel ill, and mamma knows it. When we go any- 
where in the evening, I always sit on the box. It’s much 
jollier, you can see every thing ; and Philip lets me drive, 
and sometimes I have the whip. Sometimes I do so to the 
passers-by,” he added with an expressive gesture: ‘‘it’s 
splendid!” 

“Your excellency,” said the footman, entering the ante- 
room, “Philip wants to know where you were pleased to 
put the whip?” 

“ What’s the matter? I gave it to him.” 

“He says that you did not.” 

“ Well, then I hung it on the lantern.” 

“ Philip says that it is not on the lantern ; and yon had 
better say that you took it and lost it, or Philip will have to 
pay for your pranks out of his small wages,” continued the 
angry footman with increasing animation. 

The footman, who seemed to be a respectable but sullen 
man, appeared to take Philip’s side, and was reseflved to clear 
up this matter at any cost. From an involuntary feeling of 


78 


CHILDHOOD. 


delicacy I stepped aside as though I had obsen^ed nothing. 
But the lacke^^s who were present behaved quite differently : 
they came nearer, and gazed approvingly at the old servant. 

“ Well, I lost it, I lost it,” said Etienne, avoiding further 
explanations. “I’ll pay him what the whip is worth. This 
is amusing ! ” he added, approaching me, and leading me 
towards the drawing-room. 

“ No, master, how will you pay? I know 3’ou have been 
eight months paying Marya Vasilievna twenty kopeks, and it’s 
the same in my case, and it’s two years since Petrushka ” — 

“ Hold your tongue ! ” shouted the young prince, turning 
pale with rage. “ I’ll tell all about it.” 

“You’ll tell all, you’ll tell all!” went on the footman. 
“This is bad, your excellency,” he added with a peculiar 
expression as we entered the drawing-room, and he went to 
the wardrobe with the cloaks. 

“That’s right, that’s right!” said an approving voice 
behind us in the ante-room. 

Grandmamma had a peculiar gift for expressing her opin- 
ion of people by adding to a certain tone on certain occa- 
sions the singular and plural pronouns of the second person. 
Although she employed you and thou in direct opposition to 
the generally received usage, these shades of meaning ac- 
quired an entirely different significance in her mouth. When 
the young prince approached her, she at first addressed a few 
words to him, calling him you^ and regarding him with such 
an expression of scorn that had I been in his place I should 
have become utterly abashed. But evidently Etienne was not 
a boy of that stamp : he not only paid no heed to grand- 
mamma’s reception, but even to her person, and saluted the 
whole company, if not gracefully at least without constraint. 
Sonitchka occupied all my attention. I remember that when 
Volodya, Etienne, and I were talking together in a part of the 
room from which Sonitchka was visible, and she could see 
and hear us, I spoke with pleasure ; when I had occasion to 
utter what seemed to me an amusing or manly remark, I 
spoke loudly, and glanced at the drawing-room door; but 
when we changed to another place from which it was impos- 
sible to be seen or heard from the drawing-room, I remained 
silent, and found no further pleasure in the conversation. 

The drawing-room and salon gradually filled with guests. 
As always happens at children’s parties, there were several 
large children among the number, who were not willing to 


CHILDHOOD. 


79 


miss an opportunity of dancing and making merry, if only 
for the sake of pleasing the hostess. 

When the Ivins arrived, instead of the pleasure which I 
generally experienced at meeting Serozha, I Avas conscious 
of a certain strange vexation because he would see Sonitchka 
and would show off to her. 


80 


CHILDHOOD, 


CHAPTER XXI. 

BEFORE THE MAZURKA. 

“Eh! you are evidently going to have dancing,” said 
Serozha, coming from the drawing-room, and pulling a pair 
of new kid gloves from his pocket: “I most put on my 
gloves.” 

“What’s that for? we have no gloves,” I thought: “I 
must go up-stairs, and hunt for some.” 

But although I rummaged all the drawers, all I found 
was, in one, our green travelling mittens ; in another, one 
kid glove which was of no service whatever to me, in the 
first place because it was very old and dirty, in the second 
because it was too large for me, and especially because the 
middle finger was wanting, having been cut off long ago, 
probably by Karl Ivanitch for a sore hand. Nevertheless I 
put this remnant of a glove upon my hand, and regarded 
intently that place upon my middle finger which was alwa3’s 
smeared with ink. 

“ If Natalya Savischna were onl}^ here, she would surely 
find me some gloves.” It was impossible to go down-stairs 
in such a plight, because, if they asked me why I did not 
dance, what could I say? To remain here was equally im- 
possible, because I should infallibly be caught. What am 
I to do? ” I said, flourishing my hands. 

“What are 3011 doing here?” asked Volodya, running 
in : “go engage 3^01^ lady, it will begin directly.” 

“Volodya,” 1 said to him, displaying my hand, with two 
fingers sticking out of the dirty glove, and expressing in my 
voice that I was in a state which bordered on despair, — 
“ Volodya, you never thought of this.” 

“Of what?” said he impatiently. “Ah! gloves,” he 
added quite indifferently, catching sight of my hand. “No, 
I didn’t, in fact. You must ask grandmamma. What will 
she sa3 ? ” and, without pausing to reflect, he ran down-stairs. 


CHILDHOOD. 


81 


The cold-bloodedness with which he expressed himself on 
a point which seemed to me so weighty, re-assnred me, and 
I hastened to the drawing-room, totally oblivious of the 
grotesque glove on my left hand. 

Approaching grandmamma’s arm-chair with caution, and 
touching her mantle lightly, 1 said in a whisper: 

“Grandmamma! what are we to do? We have no 
gloves ! ” 

“ What, my dear? ” 

“We have no gloves,” I repeated, drawing nearer and 
nearer, and layijig both hands on the arm of her chair. 

“And what is this?” she said all at once seeing my 
left hand. “See here, my dear,” she went on, turning 
to Madame Valakhina, “this young man has made himself 
elegant in order to dance with your daughter.” 

Grandmamma held me firmly by the hand, and gazed 
seriously but inquiringly at her guests until all had satistied 
their curiosity, and the laugh had become general. 

I should have l)een very much troubled if Serozha had 
seen me during the time, when, frowning with shame, I 
vainly endeavored to teai- my hand free ; but I was not at all 
pained in the presence of Sonitchka, who laughed until her 
eyes were filled with tears, aud all her curls fluttered about 
her rosy little face. 1 understood that her laugh was too 
loud and natural to be mocking : on the contrary, we 
laughed together, and seemed to come nearer to each other 
as we exchanged glances. This episode of the glove, although 
it might end badly, gained me this advantage, that it placed 
me on easy terms with a circle which had alwa 3 's seemed to 
me most terrible, — the drawing-room circle ; I felt not the 
slightest timidity in the hall. 

The sufferings of shy people arise from their uncertainty 
as to the opinion which people have formed of them : as 
soon as this opinion is openly demonstrated, — in whatever 
form it ma}^ occur, — this suffering ceases. 

How charming Sonitchka Valakhina was, as she danced 
opposite me in the French quadrille with the clumsy young 
Fibice ! How sweeth' she smiled when she gave me her 
little hand in the chain ! How i)rettily her golden curls 
waved in measure, how naivelv she brought her tiny feet 
together 1 When, in the fifth figure, my partner left me and 
went to the other side, while 1 waited foi- the time and pre- 
pared to execute my solo, Sonitchka closed her lips seriously 


82 


CHILDHOOD. 


and looked aside. But her fear for me was unnecessary. 
I boldh' made my cliasse to the front, chasse to the rear, 
and my glide ; and when I approached her, I playfully showed 
her my glove with my two lingers sticking out. She laughed 
excessively, and her little feet tripped about upon the waxed 
floor more bewitchingl}' than ever. I still remember how, 
when we formed a circle and all joined hands, she bent her 
little head, and, without removing her hand from mine, 
scratched her little nose with her glove. I can still see all 
this as though it were directl}’ before my eyes, and I still 
hear the quadrille from “The Maid of the Danube,” to 
whose music all this took place. 

The second quadrille arrived, and I danced it with So- 
nitchka. After seating myself beside her, I felt extremely 
awkward, and did not know in the least what to say to her. 
AVhen my silence had lasted too long, I began to fear that 
she would take me for a fool ; and I resolved to rescue her 
from any such error on my account, at any cost. “ You are 
an inhabitant of Moscow?” 1 said to her, and after receiv- 
ing an answer in the aflh mative, 1 went on : “ For my part, 
I have never yet frequented the capital,” with a calculation 
as to the effect which the word “ frequent” would produce. 
Nevertheless, I felt that although this was a very brilliant 
beginning, and fully proved my knowledge of the French 
tongue, I was incapable of continuing the conversation in 
this strain. Our turn to dance would not come very soon, 
but the silence was renewed. I gazed at her uneasily, de- 
sirous of knowing what impression I had produced, and 
awaiting her assistance. “ Where did 3^011 find such a funny 
glove?” she inquired suddenly; and this question caused 
me the greatest pleasure and relief. I explained that the 
glove belonged to Karl Ivanitch, went into some rather ironi- 
cal details concerning Karl Ivanitch’s person, — how ridicu- 
lous he was when he took off his red cap ; and how he had 
once fallen from a horse, when dressed in his green overcoat, 
straight into a puddle, and so forth. The quadrille passed 
off without our perceiving it. All this was very delightful ; 
but wh}^ did I ridicule Karl Ivanitch? Should I have lost 
Sonitchka’s good opinion if I had described him with the 
love and respect which I felt for him ? 

When the quadrille came to an end, Sonitchka said, “Thank 
3^011,” with as sweet an expression as though I had reall3" 
deserved her gratitude. 1 was in ecstasies. 1 was beside 


CHILDHOOD. 


83 


myself with joy, and did not know myself whence I had ob- 
tained such daring, confidence, and even boldness. Noth- 
ing can confuse me,” I thought, promenading about the 
salon quite unembarrassed ; “I am ready for an^^ thing.” 

8erozha proposed to me to be his vis-d^-vis. “Very well,” 
said I, “I have no partner, but 1 will find one.” Casting 
a decisive glance about the room, I perceived that all the 
ladies were engaged with the exception of one big girl, who 
was standing at the parlor door. A tall young man ap- 
proached her with the intention, as I concluded, of inviting 
her to dance ; he was within a cou[)le of paces of her, but 
I was at the other end of the hall. In the twinkling of 
an eye, I flew across the space which separated her, sliding 
gracefully over the polished floor, and with a scrape of my 
foot and a firm voice, I invited her for the contra-dance. 
The big girl smiled patronizingly, gave me her hand, and 
the young man was left partnerless. 

1 was so conscious of my power, that I paid no heed to 
the young man’s vexation ; but I afterwards learned that he 
inquired who that frowsy boy wms, who had jumped in front 
of him and taken away his partner. 


84 


CHILDHOOD. 


CHAPTER XXII. 

THE MAZURKA. 

The young man whom I had robbed of his lady, danced in 
the first couple of the mazurka. He sprang from his place, 
holding his lady by the hand, and, instead of making the 
pas de Basques as Mimi had taught us, he simpl}' ran for- 
ward. When he had reached the corner, he halted, cracked 
his heels, turned around, and went skipping on farther. 

As I had no partner for the mazurka, I sat behind grand- 
mamma’s high ehair, and looked on. 

“ Why does he do that?” I pondered. “That’s not at 
all as Mimi taught us. She declared that ever^^body danced 
the mazurka on their toes, bringing their feet round in a 
gliding circular form ; and it turns out that they don’t dance 
that way at all. There are the Ivins and Etienne and all 
of them dancing, and they are not doing the pas de Basques. 
And our Volodya has picked up the new fashion ! It’s not 
bad ! And how lovely Souitchka is ! There she goes ! ” 

I was very merry. 

The mazurka was nearing its end. Several elderly ladies 
and gentlemen came up to take leave of grandmamma, and 
departed. The lackeys, skilfully keeping out of the way of 
the dancers, brought the dishes into tlie back room. Grand- 
mamma was evidently weary, and seemed to speak unwill- 
ingly and in a very drawling way : the musicians -indolently 
began the same air for the thirtieth time. The big girl with 
w'hom I had danced caught sight of me as she was going 
through a ligure, and smiling treacherously, — she must have 
wanted to please grandmamma, — she led Sonitclika and one 
of the innumerable princesses up to me. “Rose or nettle?” 
said she. 

“Ah, so you are here!” said grandmamma, turning 
round in her chair. “ Go, my dear, go.” 

Although at that moment I would much rather have hid 


CHILDnOOD. 


85 


my head under grandmamma’s chair, than emerge from be- 
hind it, how conld I refuse? I stood up, and said “ Rose,” 
as I glanced timidly at Sonitchka. Before I could recover 
myself, some one’s hand in a white kid glove rested in mine, 
and the princess started forward with a pleasant smile, with- 
out the least suspicion that 1 did not in the least know what 
to do with my feet. 

I knew that the pns de Basques was out of place, un- 
suitable, and that it might even put me to shame ; but the 
well-known sounds of the Mazurka acting upon my ear, 
communicated a familiar movement to the acoustic nerves, 
which, in turn, communicated it to my feet ; and the latter, 
quite involuntarily, and to the amazement of all beholders, 
began the fatal circular gliding step on the tips of the toes. 
As long as we proceeded straight ahead, we got on after a 
fashion ; but when we turned 1 observed, that, unless I took 
some precautions, I should certainly get in advance. In 
order to avoid such a catastrophe I stopped short, with the 
intention of making the same kind of knee which the young 
man in the first couple made so beautifully. But at the 
very moment when I separated my feet, and was preparing 
to spring, the princess, circling hastily around me, looked 
down at my feet with an expression of stupid curiosity and 
amazement. That look finished me. I lost my self-com- 
mand to such an extent, that instead of dancing I stamped 
my feet up and down in one spot in a fashion which resem- 
bled nothing on earth, and finally came to a dead stand-still. 
Every one stared at me, some with surprise, others with 
curiosity, with amusement, or sympathy ; grandmamma alone 
looked on with complete indifference. 

“ You should not dance if you do not knowhow,” said 
papa’s angry voice in my ear ; and thrusting me aside with 
a light push, he took my partner’s hand, danced a turn with ^ 
her in antique fashion, to the vast delight of the lookers-on, 
and led her to her seat. The mazurka immediately came to 
an end. 

Lord ! wh}’' dost thou chastise me so terribly ? 

Everybody despises me, and will always scorn me. The 
paths to every thing, love, friendship, honor, nrc shut to 
me. All is lost! "Why did Volodya make signs to me 
which every one saw, and which could render me no assist- 
ance? Wiiy did that hateful princess look at my feet like 


86 


CIIILDirOOD. 


that? Why did Sonitchka — she was lovely, but why did 
she smile just then? Why did papa blush, and seize my 
hand? was even he ashamed of me? Oh, this was frightful ! 
If mamma had been there, she would not have blushed for 
her Nikolinka. And my fancy bore me far away to this 
sweet vision. I recalled the meadow in front of the house, 
the tall linden-trees in the garden, the clear pond over which 
the swallows fluttered, the blue sk}" in which hung transpar- 
ent white clouds, the perfumed stacks of fresh hay ; and 
many other joyous, soothing memories were borne in upon 
my distracted imagination. 


CHILDUOOD. 


87 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

X AFTER THE MAZURKA. 

At supper, the young man who had danced in the first 
couple sat down at our children’s table, and paid special 
attention to me, which would have flattei'ed my vanity not a 
little, if I had been capable of any sentiment whatever after 
the catastrophe which had occurred to me. But the young 
maft seemed determined to cheer me up on an}^ terms. He 
played with me, he called me a fine fellow ; and when none 
of the grown-up people were looking at us, he poured me 
glasses of wine out of various bottles., and made me drink 
them. At the end of the supper, when the waiter poured me 
only a quarter of a glass of champagne from his napkin- 
wrapped l)ottle, and the young man insisted that he should 
pour it full, and made me swallow it at one gulp, I felt an 
agreeable warmth through all my body, and a special kindli- 
ness towards m3' jolly protector, and I laughed excessively 
over something. 

All at once the sounds of the fjrandfatlier dance resounded 
from the salon, and the guests began to rise from the table. 
My friendship with the 3'oung man immediatel3' came to an 
end ; he went off to the big people, and I, not daring to fol- 
low, approached with a curiosity to hear what Madame 
Valakhina was saying to her daughter. 

“ Just another little half-hour,” said Sonitchka entreat- 
iugly. 

It is really impossible, mv angel.” 

“ Come, for my sake, please,” she said coaxingly. 

“Will it make you happy if I am ill to-morrow?” said 
JMadame Valakhina, and was so imi)rudent as to smile. 

“Oh, you permit it! we may stay?” cried Sonitchka, 
dancing with joy. 

“ What is to be done with you? Well then, go, dance. 
Here’s a cavalier for 3^011,” she said, pointing at me. 


88 


CIIILDTIOOD. 


Soiiitchka gave me her hand, and we ran into the salon. 

The wine which 1 had drunk, Sonitchka’s presence and 
gayety, caused me to completely forget my miserable scrai)e 
in the mazurka. 1 cut amusing capers with my feet ; 1 imi- 
tated a horse, aud went at a gentle trot, lifting my legs 
proudly, then 1 stamped on one spot like a ram who is angiy 
at a dog, and laughed heartil}", without caring in the least 
what impression I might produce upon the spectators. 
Sonitchka, too, never ceased to laugh ; she laughed when we 
circled round hand in hand, she laughed when she looked at 
some old gentleman who lifted his feet witli care aud stepped 
over a handkerchief, pretending that it was very difficult for 
him to do it, and she nearly died of laughter when 1 leaped 
almost to the ceiling in order to display my agility. 

As I passed through grandmamma’s study, I glanced at 
myself in the mirror: my face was bathed in perspiration, 
m}' hair was in disorder, the tuft on the crown of my kead 
stood up worse than ever ; but the general expression of my 
countenance was so merry, kind, .and healthy, that I was 
even pleased with myself. 

“ If I were always like this,” I thought, “ I might be able 
to please.” 

But when I glanced again at the very beautiful little face 
of my partner, there was in it, besides the expression of 
gayety, health, aud freedom from care, which had pleased me 
in my own, so much gentle and elegant beauty, that I was 
vexed with ny^self. I comprehended how stupid it was of 
me to call the attention of such a wonderful being to myself. 
I could not hope for a reciprocal feeling, and, indeed, 1 did 
not think of it : my soul was fillect with bliss independeut 
of that. I did not understand that in return for the love 
which filled my soul with joy, still greater happiness might be 
demanded, and that something more was to be desired than 
that this feeling might never end. All was well with me. 
]My heart fluttered like a dove, the blood poured into it 
incessantly, and I wanted to cry. 

AVhen we went through the corridor, past the dark store- 
room under the stairs, 1 glanced at it, and thought: What 
bliss it would be if 1 could live forever with her in that dark 
.storeroom ! and if nobody knew that we lived there. 

“It’s very jolly now, isn’t it?” I said in a quiet, trem- 
.bling voice, aud hastened my steps, frightened not so much 
at what I had said, but at what I had been minded to sa^’. 


CniLDTIOOD. 


80 


“Yes, very,” she replied, turning her little head towards 
me, with such a frank, kind expression that my fears ceased. 

“Especially after snpper. But if yon only knew how 
sorry [I wanted to say p(u‘aed, but did not dare] I am that 
you are going away so soon, and that we shall not see each 
other any more ! ” 

“Why shall we not see each other?” said she, regarding 
intently the toes of her slippers, and drawing her fingers 
along the grated screen which we wmre passing. “Mamma 
and I go to the Tversky boulevard every Tuesday and Friday. 
Don’t you go to walk? ” 

“ I shall ask to go without fail on Tuesday ; and if they 
w^on’t let me go, I will run away alone, and wdthout my hat. 
I know' the way.” 

“ Do you know,” said Sonitchka suddenly, “ I ahvays say 
tho2i to some little boys who come to our house ; let us call 
each other Wilt thou?” she added throwing back her 

little head, and looking me straight in the eye. 

At this moment wm entered the salon, and the second, 
lively part of grandfather was beginning. “ Do,” I said at 
a point when the noise and music could drowm my words. 

“ Say thou^” ^ corrected Sonitchka, wdth a laugh. 

“ Grandfather ” ended, and I had not managed to utter a 
single phrase with thou, although I never ceased inventing 
such as would allow of several repetitions of that pronoun. 
I had not sufficient courage. “Wilt thou?” resounded in 
m3' ears, and produced a kind of intoxication. I saw nothing 
and nobody but Sonitchka. I saw' them lift her locks, and 
tuck them behind her ears, disclosing j)ortions of her brow 
and temples w'hich I had not seen before ; I saw' them w'rap 
her up in the green shaw'l so closel}', that onl3' the tip of her 
little nose was visible ; I observed that if she had not made 
a little aperture near her mouth w'ith her rosy little fingei’s, she 
would infallibly have suffocated ; and I saw how she turned 
quickly towards us, as she descended the stairs with her 
mother, nodded her head, and disappeared through the door. 

Volodya, the Ivins, the young Prince, and 1 were all in 
love W'ith Sonitchka, and w'e folio w'ed her w'ith our eyes as 
we stood on the stairs. I do not know to whom in particu- 
lar she nodded her little head ; but at that moment I was 
firmly convinced that it w'as done for me. 

1 Nikolai used davai-te, the second person plural. Sonitchka said davai, second 
person singular. 


90 


CHILDHOOD. 


As I took leave of the Ivins, I conversed and shook hands 
quite unconstrainedly, and even rather coldl}^, with Serozha. 
If he understood that on that day he had lost my love, and 
his power over me, he was surely Sony for it, though he 
endeavored to appear quite indifferent. 

For the first time in my life I had changed in love, and 
for the first time I experienced the sweetness of that feeling. 
It delighted me to exchange a worn-out sentiment of familiar 
affection for the fresh feeling of a love full of mystery and 
uncertainty. Moreover, to fall out of love and into love at 
the same time means loving with twice the previous fervor. 


CHILDHOOD. 


91 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

IN BED. 

“How could I love Serozha so passionately, and so long? ” 
1 meditated, as 1 lay in bed. ‘‘ No, lie never understood, 
he never was capable of prizing my love, and he was never 
woi-tliy of it. And 8onitchka? how charming I ‘Wilt thou?’ 
‘ it is thy turn to begin.’ ” 

1 sprang up on all fours, as I pictured to myself her little 
face in lively colors, covered my head with the coverlet, 
tucked it under me on all sides, and when no opening re- 
mained an 3 ’where, I laj^down, and, with a pleasant sensation 
of warmth, buried m^^self in sweet visions and memories. 
Fixing my gaze immovably upon the lining of the wadded 
quilt, I saw her as clearly as I had seen her an hour before ; 
I conversed with her mentally, and that conversation, though 
utterl}" lacking in sense, afforded me indescribable delight, 
because thee^ to thee., and thine occurred in it constantly. 

These visions were so clear that I could not sleep for sweet 
emotion, and I wanted to share my superabundance of bliss 
with some one. 

“ The darling ! ” I said almost aloud, turning abruptly ou 
the other side. “ Volodya ! are you awake? ” 

“ No,” he replied in a sleepy voice : “ what is it? ” 

“ I am in loye, Volodya. I am decidedly" in love with 
Sonitchka.” 

“ Well, what of it? ” he answered, stretching himself. 

“ O Volodya ! 3 ^ou cannot imagine what is going on with- 
in me ; here I was just now lying tucked up in the coverlet, 
and I saw her so plainly, so plainly, and I talked witli her ; 
it was simpl}^ marvellous ! And, do 3 "OU know, when I lie and 
think of her I grow sad, and I want to weep dreadfully, 
God knows why.” 

Volod 3 ’a moved. 

“ There’s only one thing I wish,” I went on : 


“ that is, to 


92 


CHILDHOOD. 


be always with her, to see her always, and nothing else. 
And are you in love? Confess the truth, Volodya ! ” 

It’s odd, but 1 wanted everybody to be in love with So- 
nitchka, and then I wanted them all to tell me. 

“ What is that to you? ” said Volodya, turning his face 
towards me, — “ perhaps.” 

“You don’t want to sleep; you were making believe! ” 
I cried, perceiving by his shining eyes that he was not think- 
ing of sleep in the least ; and I flung aside the coverlet. 
“Let’s discuss her. She’s charming, isn’t she? So charm- 
ing that if she were to say to me : ‘ Nikolascha ! jump out of 
the window, or throw yourself into the fire,’ — well, 1 swear 
I should do it immediately,” said I, “and with joy. Ah, 
how bewitching!” I added, as I called her before me in 
imagination, and in order to enjoy myself in this manner to 
the fullest extent, I rolled abruptly over on the other side, 
and thrust my head under the pillow. “ I want to cry 
dreadfully, Volodya ! ” 

“ What a fool ! ” said he smiling, and then was silent for 
a while. “I’m not a bit like you : I think that, if it were 
possible, I should like at first to sit beside her and talk.” 

“ Ah ! so you are in love too? ” I interrupted. 

“And then,” continued Volodya, smiling tenderly, “then 
I would kiss her little fingers, her eyes, her lips, her nose, 
her tiny feet, — I would kiss all.” 

“ Nonsense ! ” cried I from under the pillow. 

“ You don’t understand any thing about it,” said Volodya 
contemptuously. 

“ Yes, I do understand, but you don’t, and jmu’re talking 
nonsense,” I said through my tears. 

“ Well, there’s uothing to cry about. She's a genuine 
girl ! ” 


CHILDHOOD. 


93 


CHAPTER XXV. 

THE LETTER. 

On the 16th of April, nearly six months after the day 
which 1 have described, father came np-stairs to us, during 
our lesson hour, and announced to us that we were to set 
out for the country with him that night. My heart con- 
tracted at this news, and my thoughts turned at once to my 
mother. 

The following letter was the cause of our unexpected de- 
parture : — 

Petrovskoe, April 12. 

I have but just received your kind letter of April 3d, at ten o’clock 
in the evening, and, in accordance with my usual custom, I answer it 
immediately. Fedor brought it from town last night, but, as it was 
late, he gave it to Mimi. And Mimi, under the pretext that I was ill 
and unnerved, did not give it to me for a whole day. I really have 
had a little fever, and, to tell the truth, this is the fourth day that I 
have been too ill to leave my bed. 

Pray do not be alarmed, my dear; I feel very well, and if Ivan 
Vasilitch will permit me, I intend to get up to-morrow. 

On Friday of last week, I went to ride with the children; but the 
horses stuck in the mud close to the entrance to the highway, near 
that very bridge which has always frightened me. The day was ver5 
fine, and I thought I would go as far as the highway on foot, while 
they pulled the calash out. When I reached the chapel, I was very 
much fatigued, and sat do,wn to rest; and about half an hour elapsed 
while they were summoning people to drag the carriage out. I felt 
cold, particularly in my feet, for I had on thin-soled slioes, and tliey 
were wet through. After dinner I felt a chill ami a hot turn, but I 
continued to walk according to the usual programme, and after tea 
I sat down to play a duet with Liubotchka. (You would not recog- 
nize her, she has made such progress!) But imagine my surprise, 
when I found that I could not count the time. I began to count 
several times, but my head was all in confusion, and I felt a strange 
noise in my ears. I counte<l one, two, three, then all at once eight 
and fifteen; and the chief point was that I saw that I was lying, and 
could not correct myself. Finally Mimi came to my assistance, and 
put me to bed, almost by force. This, my dear, is a circumstantial 
account of how I became ill, and how I myself am to W inie. The 


94 


CHILDHOOD. 


next day, I had quite a high fever, and oiir good old Ivan Yasilitch 
came: he still lives with us, and promises to set me free speedily in 
God’s world once more. A wonderful old man is that Ivan Yasilitch! 
When I liad the fever, and was delirious, he sat beside my bed all 
night, without closing his eyes; and now he knows that I am writing, 
he is sitting in the boudoir with the girls, and from my bedroom I can 
hear him telling them German tales, and them dying with laughter 
as they listen. 

La belle Flamande, as you call her, has been staying with me for 
two weeks past, because her mother has gone off visiting somewhere, 
and she evinces the most sincere affection by her care for me. She 
intrusts me with all her secrets of the heart. If she were in good 
hands, she might turn out a very fine girl, with her beautiful face, 
kind heart, and youth; but she will be utterly ruined in the society in 
which she lives, judging from her own account. It has occurred to 
me, that, if I had not so many children, I should be doing a good deed 
in taking charge of her. 

Liubotchka wanted to write to you herself; but she has already 
torn up the third sheet of paper, and says: “I know what a scoffer 
papa is; if you make a single mistake, he shows it to everybody.” 
Katenka is as sweet as ever, Mimi as good and stupid. 

Now I will talk to you about serious matters. You write that your 
affairs are not going well this winter, and that it is indispensable that 
you should take the money from Khabarovka. It surprises me that 
you should even ask my consent to that. Does not what belongs to 
me belong equally to you ? 

You are so kind and good, that you conceal the real state of things, 
from the fear of troubling me: but I guess that you have probably 
lost a great deal at play, and I assure you that I am not angry at you; 
therefore, if the matter can only be arranged, pray do not think too 
much of it, and do not worry yourself needlessly. I have become ac- 
customed not to count upon your winnings for the children, but even 
(excuse me) on your whole estate. Your winnings cause me as little 
pleasure as your losses cause pain: the only thing which does pain 
me is your unhappy passion for gambling, which deprives me of 
a portion of your tender attachment, and makes me tell you such 
bitter truths as I tell you now; and God knows how this hurts' me! 
I shall not cease to pray God for one thing, that he will save you, not 
from poverty (what is poverty?), but from that frightful situation, 
when the interests of the children, which I am bound to protect, shall 
come into conflict with ours. Heretofore the Lord has fulfilled my 
prayer: you have not passed the line beyond which we must either 
sacrifice our property, — which no longer belongs to us, but to our 
children, — or — and it is terrible to think of, but" this horrible misfor- 
tune continually threatens us. Y"es, it is a heavy cross which the Lord 
has sent to both of us. 

You write about the children, and return to our old dispute: you 
ask me to consent to send them to some educational institution. You 
know my prejudices against such education. 

I do not know, my dear friend, whether you will agree with me; 
but I beseech you, in any case, to promise, out of love for me, that as 
long as I live, and after my death, if it shall please God to part us, 
never to do this. 

You write that it is indispensable that you should go to Petersburg 


CHILDHOOD. 


95 


about our affairs. Christ be with you, my friend; go and return as 
speedily as possible. It is so wearisome for all of us without you! 
The spring is wonderfully beautiful. The balcony door has already 
been taken down, the paths to the orangery were perfectly dry four 
days ago, the peach-trees are in full bloom, the snow lingers in a few 
spots only, the swallows have come, and now Liubotchka has brought 
me the first spring flowers. The doctor says I shall be quite well in 
three days, and may breathe the fresh air, and warm myself in the 
April sun. Farewell, dear friend: pray do not worry about my illness, 
nor about your losses; finish your business as speedily as possible, and 
come to us with the children for the whole summer. I am making 
famous plans for passing it, and you alone are lacking to their realiza° 
tion. 

The remaining portion of the letter was written in French, 
in a cramped and uneven hand, on a second scrap of paper. 
1 translate it word for word : — 

Do not believe what I wrote to you about my illness; no one sus- 
pects how serious it is. I alone know that I shall never rise from my 
bed again. Do not lose a moment: come and bring the children. 
Perha]Ds I may be able to embrace them once again, and bless them: 
that is my last wish. I know what a terrible blow I am dealing you; 
but it matters not: sooner or later you would receive it from me, or 
from others. Let us try to bear this misfortune with firmness, and 
hope in God’s mercy. Let us submit to His will. 

Do not think that what I write is the raving of a delirious imagin- 
ation: on the contrary, my thoughts are remarkably clear at this 
moment, and 1 am perfectly composed. Do not comfort yourself with 
vain hopes, that these are but the dim deceitful presentiments of a 
timid soul. No, I feel, I know — and I know because God was 
pleased to reveal this to me — that I have not long to live. 

AVill my love for you and the children end with this life? I know 
that this is impossible. I feel too strongly at this moment to think that 
this feeling, -without which I cannot conceive of existence, could ever 
be annihilated. My soul cannot exist without its love for you; and 
I know that it will exist forever, from this one thing, that such a 
sentiment as my love could never arise, were it ever to come to an end. 

I shall not be with you, but I am firmly convinced that my love 
will never leave you ; and this thought is so comforting to my lieart, 
that I await my fast api)roaching death, calmly, and without terror. 

I am calm, and God knows that I have always regarded death, and 
still regard it, as a passage to a better life; but why do teais crush me? 
Why deprive the children of their beloved mother? Why deal you so 
heavy, so unlooked-for a blow? AVhy must I die, when your love has 
rendered life boundlessly happy for me? 

May His holy will be done! 

I can write no more for tears. Perhaps I shall not see you. I 
thank you, my precious friend, for all the happiness with which you 
have surrounded me in this life; 1 shall pray God there, that he will 
reward you. Farewell, dear friend ; remember, when 1 am no more, 
that my love will never abandon you, wherever you may be. Fare- 
well Volodya, farewell my angel, farewell Penjamin, my Nikolinka. 

Will they ever forget me? 


96 


CHILDHOOD. 


This letter enclosed a note in French, from Mimi, which 
read as follows : — 

The sad presentiments of which she speaks are but too well con- 
firmed by the doctor’s words. 'Last niglit she ordered tliis letter to be 
taken to the post at once. Thinking that she said this in delirium, I 
waited until this morning, and then Wde up my mind to open it. No 
sooner had I done so, than Natalya Nikolaevna asked me what I had 
done with the letter, and ordered me to burn it if it had not been 
sent. She keeps speaking of it and declares that it will kill you. Do 
not delay your coming, if you wish to see this angel while she is still 
left with us. Excuse this scrawl. I have not slept for three nights. 
You know how I love her! 

Natalya Savischna, who had passed the entire night of 
the 11th of April in mamma’s chamber, told me, that, after 
writing the first part of the letter, mamma laid it on the 
little table beside her, and went to sleep. 

“I confess,” said Natalya Savischna, “that I dozed in 
the arm-chair myself, and my stocking fell from my hands. 
But, about one o’clock, I heard in my dreams, that she 
seemed to be conversing wdth some one ; I opened my eyes, 
and looked: she was sitting up in bed, my little dove, with 
her little hands folded thus, and her tears w^ere flowing in 
streams.' ‘ So all is over?’ she said, and covered her face 
with her hands. I sprang up and began to inquire, ‘ What 
is the matter with j^ou ? ’ 

“ ‘ Ah, Natalya Savischna, if you only knew what I have 
just seen 1 ’ 

“ But in spite of all my questions, she would say no more ; 
she merely ordered me to bring the little table, wrote some- 
thing more, commanded me. to seal the letter in her presence, 
and send it off immediately. After that, things grew worse 
and worse.” 


CHILDHOOD. 


97 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

WHAT AWAITED US IN THE COUNTRY. 

On the 25tli of April we descended from the travellini^ 
carriage at the porch of the Petrovskoe house. Pai)a had 
been vei^ thoughtful when we left Moscow, and when Volodya 
asked him whether mamma was not ill, he looked sadly at 
him, and nodded in silence. During the journey he evidently 
grew more composed ; but as we approached home his face 
assumed a more and more mournful expression, and when, 
on alighting from the calash, he asked Foka, who ran panting 
out, Where is Natalya Nikolaevna?” his voice was not 
firm, and there were tears in his eyes. Good old Foka 
glanced at us, dropped his eyes, and, opening the door of the 
anteroom, he turned aside and answered : 

“ She has not left her room in six days.” 

Milka, who, as I afterwards learned, had not ceased to 
howl mournfully since the very day that mamma v/as taken 
ill, sprang jo 3 Tnisly at papa, leaped upon him, whined, and 
licked his hands ; but he pushed her aside, and went into the 
drawing-room, thence into the boudoir, from which a door 
led directly into the bedroom. The nearer he came to the 
room, the more evident became his disquiet, as was shown by 
all his movements : as he entered the boudoir, he walked on 
tijitoe, hardl}" drew his breath, and crossed himself before he 
could make up his mind to grasp the handle of the closed 
door. At that moment Mimi, dishevelled and tear-stained, 
ran in from tlie corridor. Ah, Piotr Alexandrovitch,” she 
said in a whisper, with an expj-ession of genuine despair, and 
then, observing that pa[)a was turning the handle, she added 
almost inaudibl}^ ‘At is impossible to pass here ; the spring 
is gone.” 

bh, how sadly this affected mv childish imagination, which 
was attuned to sorrow, with a fearful foreboding ! 

Wo went to the maids’ room. In the corriLlor we en- 


98 


CHILDHOOD. 


countered Akim, the little fool, who always amused us with 
his grimaces ; but at that moment he not only did not seem 
laughable to me, but nothing struck me so painfully as his 
mindless, indifferent face. In the maids’ room two maids, 
who were sitting over their work, rose in order to courtesy to 
us, with such a sorrowful expression that 1 was frightened. 
Traversing Mimi’s room next, papa opened the door of the 
bedroom, and we entered. To the right of the door were two 
windows, hung with cloths ; at one of them sat Natalya 
Savischna, with her spectacles on her nose, knitting a 
stocking. She did not kiss us as she generally did, but 
merely rose, looked at us through her spectacles, and the tears 
poured down her face in streams. I did not like it at all to 
have people begin to cry as soon as the\: looked at us, when 
they had been quite calm before. 

At the left of the door stood a screen, and behind the screen 
the bed, a little table, a little cabinet spread with medicines, 
and the big arm-chair in which dozed the doctor ; beside the 
bed stood a young, extremely fnir, and remarkably pretty 
girl, in a white morning dress, who, with her sleeves turned 
back, was applying ice to mamma’s head, which 1 could not 
see at that moment. This girl was hi bf-lle Flamande., of 
whom mamma had written, and who, later on, played such an 
important role in the life of the whole family. As soon as 
we entered, she removed one hand from mamma’s head, and 
arranged the folds on the bosom of her gown, then said in a 
whisper, She is unconscious.” 

I was very wretched at that moment, but I involuntarily 
noted all these trifles. It was nearly dark in the room, it was 
hot, and there was a mingled odor of mint, cologne-water, 
chamomile, and Hoffmann’s drops. This odor impressed me 
to such a degree that when I smell it, or when 1 even recall 
it, fancy immediately bears me back to that dark, stifling 
chamber, and reproduces every detail, even the most minute, 
of that terrible moment. 

INlamma’s eyes were open, but she saw nothing. Oh,. I 
shall never forget that dreadful look ! It expressed so much 
suffering. 

They led us away. 

When I afterwards asked Natalya Savischna about 
mamma’s last moments, this is what she told me : 

“After you were taken away, my dear one was restless 
for a long time as though something oppressed her, then she 


CHILDHOOD. 


99 


dropped her head on her pillow, and dozed as quietly and 
peacefully as an angel from heaven. I onlj’ went out to see 
why they did not bring her drinks. When 1 returned my 
darling was throwing herself all about, and beckoning your 
papa to her ; he bent over her, and it was evident that he 
lacked the power to say what he wished to ; she could only 
open her lips, and begin to groan, ‘ My God ! Lord ! Tlie 
children, the children ! ’ I wanted to run and fetch you, but 
Ivan Vasilitch stopped me and said, ‘It will excite her more, 
it is better not.’ After that she only raised her hand and 
dropped it again. What she meant by that, God only knows. 
I think that she was blessing you in your absence, and it was 
plain that the Lord did not grant her to see her little children 
before the end. Then my little dove raised herself, made 
this motion with her hand, and all at once she spoke in a voice 
which I cannot bear to think of, ‘ Mother of God, do not 
desert them ! ’ Then the pain attained her heart ; it was evi- 
dent from her eyes that the poor woman was suffering 
tortures ; she fell back on the pillows, caught the bed-clothes 
in her teeth, and her tears flowed, my dear.” 

“ Well, and then? ” I asked. 

Natalya Savischna said no more ; she turned away and 
wept bitterl 3 ". 

Mamma died in terrible agony. 


100 


CHILDHOOD. 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

SORROW. 

Late in the evening of the following day I wanted to see 
her once more. I overcame the involuntary feeling of terror, 
opened the door gently, and entered the hall on tiptoe. 

In the middle of the room, upon a table, stood the coffin, 
and around it stood lighted candles in tall silver candlesticks. 
In a distant corner sat the d3’achok,^ reading the Psalter in a 
low, monotonous voice. 

I paused at the door, and gazed ; but my eyes w^ere so swol- 
len with weeping, and my nerves were so unstrung, that I could 
distinguish nothing. Every thing ran together in a strange 
fashion, — lights, brocade, velvet, the great candelabra, the 
rose-colored pillow bordered with lace, the frontlet,-^ the cap 
with ribbons, and the transparent light of the wax caudles. 
I climbed upon a chair in order to see her face, but in the 
place where it was the same pale-yellowish transparent object 
presented itself to me. I could not believe that that was her 
face. I began to examine it attentively, and little by little I 
began to recognize the dear familiar features. I shivered 
with terror when I had convinced m^^self that it was she ; but 
why were the closed e^^es so sunken? Why that dreadful 
pallor, and the blackish spot beneath the skin on one cheek? 
Why was the expression of the whole face so stern and cold ? 
Why were the lips so pale, and their outline so very beau- 
tiful, so majestic, and so expressive of an unearthly calm 
that a cold shudder lan down m\^ back and through my hair 
when I looked upon it? 

1 gazed, and felt that some incomprehensible, irresistible 
power was drawing my eyes to that lifeless face. I did not 
take my eyes from it, and imagination sketched me a picture 

^ Clerk -ecclesiastical. 

2 'I'he ryevlchik is made of satin or paper, with pictures of Christ, Mary, and St. 
John, and laid upon the brow of the corpse, iii the Russian Church. — Tk. 


CHILDHOOD. 


101 


of blooming life f ncl liappiness. I forgot that the dead body 
which lay beforf me, and in)on which I stupidly gazed, as 
U})on an object which had nothing in common with me, was 

she. I fancied her now in one, now in another situation 

alive, merry, smiling. Then all at once some feature in the 
pale face upon which my eyes rested struck me. 1 recalled 
the terrible reality, shuddered, but did not cease mv gaze. 
And again visions usur[)ed the place of reality, and ag'ain the 
consciousness of the reality shattered my visions. At length 
imagination grew weary, it ceased to deceive me ; the con- 
sciousness of reality also vanished, and I lost my senses. I 
do not know how long I remained in this state, I do not 
know ill what it consisted; I only know, that, for a time, I 
lost consciousness of my existence, and expei ienced an ex- 
alted, indesci’ibably pleasant and sorrowful deligiit. 

Terhaps, in Hying hence to a better world, her beautiful 
soul pzed sadly back upon that in which she left us ; she 
perceived my grief, took pity upon it, and descended to earth 
on the pinions of love, with a heavenly smile of compassion, 
in order to comfort and bless me. 

The door creaked, a dyachok entered the room to relieve 
the other. This noise roused me ; and the lirst thought 
which occurred to me was that since 1 was not crying, and 
was standing on a chair, in an attitude which had nothing 
touching about it, the d3xach6k might take me for an unfeel- 
ing boy, who had climbed on the chair out of pity or curios- 
ity. 1 crossed myself, made a reverence, and began to cr}^ 

As I now recall my impressions, I iind that that moment 
of self-forgetfulmss was the only one of genuine grief. Be- 
fore and after f le burial, I never ceased to weep, and was 
sad ; but it puts me to shame to recall that sadness, because 
a feeling of self-love was always mingled with it ; atone time 
a desire to show that 1 was more sorry than anybody else ; 
again, solicitude as to the impression which I was })roducing 
upon others ; at another time, an aimless curiosity which 
caused me to make observations upon iMimi’s cap and the 
faces of those present. I despised fnyself, because the feel- 
ing I experienced was not exclusively one of sorrow, and I 
tried to conceal all others ; for this reason my regret was 
insincere and unnatural. Moreover, 1 experienced a sort of 
])leasure in knowing that 1 was unhappy. 1 tried to arouse 
my consciousness of unhappiness ; and tliis egotistical feel- 
ing, more than all the rest, stilled genuine grief within me. 


102 


CniLDHOOD. 


After passing the night in a deep and qniet sleep, as is 
always the case after great sorrow, I awoke with my tears 
dried and my nerves calm. At ten o’clock we were sum- 
moned to the mass for the dead, which was celebrated before 
the body was taken awa}". The room was filled with house- 
servants and peasants, who came in tears to take leave of 
their mistress. During the service I cried in proper fashion, 
crossed m3'self, and made reverences to the earth ; but I did 
not pray in spirit, and was tolerabh’ cold-blooded. I was 
worrying because my new half-coat, which they had put on 
me, hurt me very much under the arms. I meditated how 
not to spot the knees of my trousers too much ; and I took 
observations, on the sly, of all those who were present. My 
father stood at the head of the coffin. He was as pale as his 
handkerchief, and restrained his tears with evident dilliculty. 
His tall figure in its black coat, his pale, expressive face, his 
movements, graceful and assured as ever, when he crossed 
himself, bowed, touching the ground with his hand, took the 
candle from the hand of the priest, or approached the coffin, 
were extremely effective. But, I do not know why, tlie fact 
that ne could show himself off so effectively at such a moment 
was precisely what did not please me. Mimi stood leaning 
against the wall, and appeared hardly able to keep her feet. 
Her dress was crumpled and flecked with down ; her cap was 
pushed on one side ; her swollen eyes were red ; her head 
shook. She never ceased to sob in a voice that rent the 
soul, and she incessantly covered her face with her hands 
and her handkerchief. It seemed to me that she did this in 
order to hide her countenance from the spectators, and to 
rest for a moment after her feigiK'd sobs. I remembered 
how she had told papa, the day before, that mamma’s death 
was such a terrible shock to her that she had no hope of liv- 
ing through it ; that it deprived her of every thing ; that that 
angel (as she called mamma) had not forgotten her before 
her death, and had expressed a desire to secure her future 
and Katenka’s forever from care. She shed bitter tears. as 
she said this, and perhaps her grief was genuine, but it was 
not pure and exclusive. Liubotchka, in her black frock, with 
mourning trimmings, was all bathed in tears, and dropped 
her little head, glancing rarely at the coffin, and her face 
expressed only childish terror. Katenka stood beside her 
mother, and, in s[)ite of the long face she had })ut on, was as 
rosy as ever. Volodya’s frank nature was frank even. in his 


CIJTLDnOOD. 


103 


grief. He stood at times with bis tboiiglitfiil, immovable 
glance fixed on some o])ject ; then bis month began sudden- 
ly to twitch, and be hastily crossed himself, and bowed in rev- 
erence. All the strangers who were present at the funeral 
were intolerable to me. The phrases of consolation which 
they uttered to father, that she would be better otf there, that 
she was not for this world, aroused a kind of anger in me. 

What right had they to speak of her and mourn for her? 
Some of them in speaking of us called us orpUdiis. As if 
we did not know without their assistance that children who 
have no mother are called by that name ! It evidently 
pleased them to be the first to bestow it iii)on ns, just as 
they generally make haste to call a young girl who has just 
been married, Madume for the first time. 

In the far corner of the hall, almost concealed by the 
open door of the pantry, knelt a bowed and gray-haired 
woman. With clasped hands, and eyes raised to heaven, she 
neither wept nor prayed. Her soul aspired to God, and she 
besought him to let her join the one whom she loved more 
than all on earth, and she confidently hoped that it would 
be soon. 

‘'There is one who loved her trnlj’ ! ” thought I, and I 
was ashamed of myself. 

The mass came to an end ; the face of the dead woman 
was uncovered, and all present, with the exception of our- 
selves, approached the cofihi one by one and kissed it. 

One of the last to draw near and take leave of her was a 
peasant woman, leading a beautiful five-year-old girl, whom 
she had brought hither God only knows wh}*. At that 
moment, I unexiiectedly droiiped my moist handkerchief, 
and stooped to pick it u]). But I had no sooner bent over, 
than a frightful piercing shriek startled me : it was so full 
of terror tliat if I live a hundred years I shall never forget 
it, and when 1 recall it a cold chill always runs all over 
my body. I raised my head; on a tabouret beside the coffin, 
stood the same peasant woman, holding in her arms with 
difficulty the little girl, who with her tiu}^ hands thrust out 
before her, her frightened little face turned aside, and her 
staring eyes fastened upon the face of the corpse, was 
shrieking in a wild and dreadful voice. I uttered a shriek 
in a tone which I think must have been even more terrible 
then the one which had startled me, and ran out of the 
room. 


104 


CHILDHOOD. 


It was only at that moment that T understood whence 
came that strong, heavy odor, which, mingling with the odor 
of the incense, filled the room ; and the thought that tluit 
face, which a few days before had been full of beauty and 
tenderness, that face which I loved more than any thing in 
the world, could excite terror, seemed for the first time to 
reveal to me the bitter truth, and filled my soul with despair. 


) 


CHILDHOOD. 


105 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

THE LAST SAD MEMORIES. 

Mamma was dead, but our life pursued its usual course. 
We went to bed and got up at the same hours, and in the 
same rooms ; morning and evening tea, dinner, supper, all 
took place at the usual time ; the tables and chairs stood in 
the same places ; nothing was changed in the house or in our 
manner of life, only — she was no more. 

It seemed to me, that, after such unhappiness, all must 
change : our ordinary manner of life appeared to me an 
insult to her memoiy, and recalled her absence too vividly. 

After dinner, on the evening before the funeral, I wanted 
to go to sleep ; and I went to Natalya Savischna’s room, 
intending to install myself in her bed, on the soft feather- 
bed, and beneath the warm wadded coverlet. When I en- 
tered, Natalya Savischna was lying on her bed, and was 
probably asleep ; hearing the noise of my footsteps, she rose 
up, flung aside tlie woollen cloth which protected her head 
from the flies, and, adjusting her cap, seated herself on the 
edge of the bed. 

‘‘ What is it? They have sent you to get some rest, my 
dear? Lie down.” 

AVliat is the matter with you, Natalya Savischna?” I 
said, holding her hand. “ That is not it at all. I just came, 
and you are weary yourself ; you had better lie down.” 

No, batiuschka, I have slept enough,” she said (I knew 
that she had not slept for three days, for grief.) “ And 
besides, I am not sleepy now,” she added with a deep sigh. 

I wanted to discuss our misfortune with Natalya Savischna. 
I knew her honesty and love, and it would have been a 
comfort to me to weep with her. 

“ Natalya Savischna,” I said, seating m^^self on the bed, 
after a brief silence, “ did you expect this? ” 

Tlie old woman looked at me in amazement and curiosity, 


106 


CniLDTlOOD. 


probably because she did not understand why I asked her 
that. 

Who could expect this?” I repeated. 

“ Ah, my dear,” said she, casting a glance of the tender- 
est sympathy upon me, “ it was not to be expected, and I 
cannot believe it even now. Such an old woman as 1 ought 
to have laid her old bones in the grave long ago. The old 
master, Prince Nikolai Mikhailovitch, your grandfather (may 
his memory be eternal!) had two brothers, and a sister 
Annuchka ; and I have buried them all, and they were all 
younger than 1 am, batiuschka ; and now, for my sins evi- 
dently, it is my fate to outlive her. His holy will be done ! 
He took her because she was worthy, and He wants good 
people there.” 

This simple thought impressed me as a comfort, and I 
moved nearer Natah’a Savischna. She folded her hands on 
her bosom, and looked upwards; her sunken, tearful eyes 
expressed great but quiet suffering. She cherished a linn 
hope that God would not long part her from her upon whom 
she had for so many years concentrated all the power of her 
love. 

“ Yes, my dear, it does not seem long since I was her 
nurse, and dressed her, and she called me Nascha. She 
would run to me, seize me with her plump little hands, and 
begin to kiss me, and to say : 

‘ My Naschik, my beauty, my little turke}^ ! ’ 

“And I would say in jest : 

“ ‘ It’s not true, matuschka, you do not love me ; wait until 
you grow up, and marry, and forget your Nascha.’ She 
would begin to reflect. ‘ No,’ she would say, ‘ it will be 
better not to marry, if I cannot take Nascha with me ; I 
will never desert Nascha.’ And now she has deserted me, 
and has not waited for me. And she loved me, the dear 
dead woman ! And, in truth, who was there that she did not 
love? Yes, batiuschka, it is imi)ossible for you to forget 
your mamma. She was not a humnn being, but an angel 
from heaven. AVhen her soul reaches the kingdom of 
heaven, it will love you there, and rejoice over you.” 

“ Why do you say, when she reaches the kingdom of 
heaven, Natalya Savischna? ” 1 asked. “ Why, 1 think she 
is there now.” 

“No, batiuschka,” said Natalya Savischua, lowering her 
voice, and sitting closer to me on the bed: “ her soul is here 


CHILDHOOD. 


107 


now,” and she pointed upwards. She spoke almost in a 
whisper, and with so inneh feeling- and conviction that I 
involuntarily raised my eyes, and inspected the cornice in 
search of something. "'• Before the soul of the just goes to 
paradise, it undergoes forty changes, my dear, and it can 
stay in its home for forty days.” 

She talked long in this strain, and with as much simplicity 
and faith as though she were relating the most every-day oc- 
currences, which she had witnessed herself, and on the score 
of which it would never enter any one’s head to entertain 
the slightest doubt. 1 held my breath as I listened to her ; 
and although I did not understand very well what she said, I 
believed her entirel}’. 

Yes, batiuschka, she is here now ; she is looking at us ; 
perhaps slie hears what we are saying,” said Natalya Sa- 
vischna, in conclnsion. 

She l^ent her head, and became silent. She wanted a 
handkerchief to wipe her falling tears ; she rose, looked me 
straight in the face, and said, in a voice which trembled with 
emotion : 

'■‘The Lord has brought me many degrees nearer to him 
through this. What is left for me here now? Whom have 
1 to live for? Whom have I to love? ” 

“Don’t you love us?” I said reproachfully, hardly re- 
straining my tears. 

“God knows how I love you, my darlings ; but I have 
never loved any one as 1 loved her, and 1 never can love 
any one in that way.” 

Slie could say no more, but turned awa}^, and sobbed 
loudly. 

I no longer thought of sleeping : we sat opposite each 
other in silence, and wept. 

Foka entered the room; perceiving our condition, and 
probabW not wishing to disturb us, he glanced at us liinidl}' 
and in silence, and paused at the door. 

“ What do you want, Fokascha? ” asked Natalya Savisch- 
na, wiping her eyes. 

“A pound and a half of raisins, four pounds of sugar, and 
three pounds of rice, for the kutya.” ^ 

“Immediately, immediately, batiuschka,” said Natalya 
Savischna, taking a hasty pincli of snuff ; and she went to 
her cu})board with brisk steps. The last traces of the grief 

1 A diih which u carried io the church at the raajc i:i raemory of a dead verson. 


108 


CHILDHOOD. 


called forth hy onr conversation had vanished when she set 
about her duty, which she considered as extremely im- 
portant. 

What are the four pounds for?” she o;riimbled, as she 
took out the sugar, and weighed it in the scales. '' Three and 
a half will be enough,” and she took several bits fi-om the 
scales. “ Who ever heard the like? J gave out eight i)ounds 
of rice vesterday, and now more is demanded. You will 
have it so, Foka Demiditch, but 1 won’t let you have the 
rice. That Vanka is glad because the house is upside down : 
he thinks no one will notice. No, 1 won’t shut my eyes to 
attempts on my master’s goods. Now, was such a thing 
ever seen, as eight pounds? ” 

“ What is to be done? Me says that it’s all gone.” 

“ Well, there, take it, there ! Let him have it ! ” 

I was surprised at this transition from the atfecting senti- 
ment with which she had talked with me, to this grumbling 
and petty calculation. On reflecting upon the subject after- 
wards, I saw, that. In spite of what was going on in her soul, 
she retained sufficient presence of mind to busy herself with 
;ier affairs, and the force of habit drew her to her customary 
employments. Sorrow acted so powerfully upon her, that 
she did not find it necessary to dissemble, and she was able 
to occupy herself with extraneous objects : she would not 
even have been able to understand how such a thought could 
occur to any one. 

Vanity is a feeling which is utterly incompatible wdth gen- 
uine grief ; and, at the same time, this feeling is so strongly 
interwoven with the nature of many, that even the deepest 
woe rarely expels it. Vanity exhibits itself in sorrow by the 
desire to appear sad, or unhappy, or firm ; and these low 
desires, which we do not acknowledge, but which rarely 
forsake ns even in the deepest trouble, deprive it of force, 
dignity, and truth. Lut Natalya Savischna was so deei)ly 
wounded by her unha[)piness, that not a single desire lingered 
in her soul, and she only lived from habit. 

After giving Foka the provisions he had asked for, and 
reminding him of the pasty which must be prepared for the 
entertainment of the clergy, she dismissed him, took her 
stocking, and seated herself beside me again. 

The conversation turned again upon the same subject as 
before ; and again we wept, and again dried our eyes. 

These conversations with Natalya Savischna were repeated 


CIIILDnOOD. 


109 


every day ; her quiet tears and calm, devont words brouglit 
me comfort and consolation. 

I>ut we were soon parted. Three days after the funeral, 
the whole household removed to iNloscow, and 1 was fated 
never to see her more. 

Grandmother only received the terrible news on our arilval, 
and her grief was extraordinary. We were not admitted to 
her presence, because she lay unconscious for a whole week, 
and the doctor feared for her life, the more so as she not 
only would not take any medicine, but would speak to no 
one, did not sleep, and took no nourishment. Sometimes, as 
she sat alone in her chamber, in her arm-chair, she suddenly 
broke into a laugh, then began to sob, but shed no tears ; then 
she was seized with convulsions, and uttered frightful and 
incoherent words in a voice of madness. She felt the need of 
blaming some one for her misery ; and she said terrible things, 
spoke to some invisible person with unusual energy, sprang 
from her chair, paced the room in long and rapid strides, and 
then fell senseless. 

I entei’ed her room on one occasion. She was sitting in her 
arm-chair, as usual, and was calm to all appearances, but 
her glance startled me. Her eyes were very wide open, but 
their gaze was wavering and stupid ; she looked straight at me, 
but she could not have seen me. Her lips began a slow smile, 
and she spoke in a voice of touching gentleness: “Come 
here, my dear ; come here, my angel.” 1 thought that she was 
addressing me, and approached nearer; l)ut she did not look 
at me. “Ah, if you only knew, my love, what torments I 
have suffered, and how glad I am that you have come!” 
Then I understood that she fancied she saw mamma, and 
halted. “ They told me you were dead,” she went on, with 
a frown. “ What nonsense ! Could you die before me?” 
and slie gave a dreadful h\steric laugh. 

Onl}^ [)eople who are capable of loving strongly can also 
suffer great sorrow ; but this same necessity of loving serves 
to counteract their grief, and heals them. For this reason the 
moral natui’e of man is more active than the ph 3 ’sical. Grief 
never kills. 

Aftc'i* the lapse of a week, grandmamma could w^eep, and 
her condition improved. Her first thought, when she came 
to herself, was of us ; and her love for us incrensed. We 
nevei’ left lier arm-chair ; she cried softly, spoke of mamma, 
and tendvi'ly caressed us. 


110 


CniLDUOOD. 


It coiilfl not enter the mind of any one who looked upon 
grandinaimna's grief, that she was exaggerating it, and the 
expressions of that grief were forcible and touching ; but I 
do not know why 1 sympathized more with Natalya Savischna, 
and to this day 1 am convinced that no one loved and 
mourned mamma so purely and so sincerely as that simi)le, 
affectionate creature. 

The hai)i)y days of childhood ended for me with mamma’s 
death, and a new epoch began, — the e[)Och of boyhood ; but 
as my recollections of Natalya Savischna, whom 1 never saw 
again, and who exercised such a powerful and beneficent in- 
ffuence over my career and the development of my sensibility, 
belong to the first epoch, 1 will say a few words more about 
her and her death. 

After our departure, as we were afterwards informed, she 
remained in the village, and found the time hang heavy oii> 
her hands from lack of occupation. Although all the clothes- 
presses were still in her hands, and she never ceased to turn 
over their contents, alter the arrangement, hang things up, and 
l)ack them away again, ^et she missed the noise and turmoil 
of a country house which is inhabited by its owners, to which 
she had been accustomed fi'om her childhood. Grief, the 
change in her manner of life, the absence of responsil)ilities, 
speedily developed an old complaint to which she had long 
been inclined. Just a year after mamma’s death, dropsy 
made its appearance, and she took to her bed. 

It was hard, I think, for Natalya Savischna to live alone, 
and still harder for her to die alone, in the great empty house 
at Tetrovskoe, without relatives or friends. Every one in the 
liouse loved and revered Natalya Savischna ; but she enter- 
tained no friendship with any one, and was proud of it. She 
considered that in her jwsition of a housekeeper who enjoyed 
the confidence of her master, and had in her charge so many 
chests tilled with all sorts of property, a friendship with any 
one would infallibly lead to partiality and a criminal conde- 
scension. For that reason, or, possibly, because she had 
nothing in common with the other servants, she held herself 
aloof from all, and said that she bad neither gossips nor 
cronies in the house, and she would not countenance any 
attacks upon her master’s i)roperty. 

Slie sought and found consolation by confiding licr feeling 
to God in fervent jirayer ; but sometimes, in tlio^e moments of 
weakness to which we are all subject, when man linds his 


CHILD HOOD. 


Ill 


best comfort in the tears and sympathy of a living being, she 
put her little dog on her bed (it licked her hand, and tixed its 
yellow eyes upon her), talked to it, and wept softly as slie 
petted it. When the poodle began to howl piteously, she 
endeavored to qniet it, and said, ‘SStop; I know, without 
your telling me, that I shall die soon.” 

A month before her death, she took from her chest some 
white calico, white muslin, and pink ribbons ; with the as- 
sistance of her maid she made herself a white dress and a 
cap, and arranged every thing which was requisite for her 
funeral, down to the most minute detail. She also sorted 
over the chests belonging to her master, and transferred them 
with the greatest precision, in writing, to the overseer. There 
remained to her two silk dresses, an old shawl which grand- 
mamma had given her at some time or other, and grandfather’s 
military uniform which had also been given to her for her 
own. Thanks to her care, the embroideiy and galloon on 
the uniform were perfectly fresh, and the cloth had not been 
touched by the moths. 

Before her death, she expressed a wish that one of these 
dresses, the pink one, should be given to Volodya for a 
dressing-gown or jacket, and the other, the brown checked 
one, to me for the same purpose, and the shawl to Liu- 
botchka. The uniform she bequeathed to whichever of us 
should first become an officer. All the rest of her proper- 
ty, and her money, with the exception of forty rubies wdiich 
she laid aside for her funeral and masses, she left to her 
brother. Her brother, who had received his freedom long- 
before, resided in some distant government, and led a very 
dissipated life ; hence she had had no intercourse with him 
during her lifetime. 

When Natalya Savischna’s brother presented himself to 
receive his inheritance, and the deceased’s entire property 
proved to consist of twenty-five rubles in bills, he would not 
believe it, and said that it could not be that the old woman, 
who had lived for sixty years in a wealthy family, and had 
had every thing in her hands, had lived in a miserly way all 
her life, and had fretted over every scrap, had left nothing. 
But this was actually the case. 

Natalya Savischna suffered for two months from her com- 
plaint, and bore her pain with a truly Christian patience ; 
she did not grumble or complain, but merely prayed inces- 
santly, as was her custom. She confessed with joy, and re- 


112 


CHILDHOOD. 


ceivecl the communion and extreme unction, an hour before 
her death. 

She begged forgiveness of all tlie house-servants for any 
injuries which she might have done them, and besought her 
priest, Father Vasili, to say to all of us, that she did not 
kuow how to express her thanks for all our kindness, and 
prayed us to pardon her if she had pained any one by her 
stupidity; “but I never was a thief, and 1 can say that I 
never cheated my masters out of a thread.” This was the 
only quality in herself which she valued. 

Having put on the wrapper and cap which she had pre- 
pared, and propped herself up on the pillows, she never 
ceased until the moment of death to converse with the priest. 
She reminded him that she had not left any one poor, gave 
him ten rubles, and begged him to distribute it in the par- 
ish. Then she crossed herself, lay back, sighed for the last 
time, and uttered the name of God in a joyous tone. 

She quitted life without regret ; she did not fear death, 
but accepted it as a blessing. This is often said, but how 
rarely is it true ! Natalya Savischna could not fear death, 
because she died firm in the faitli and fulfilling the law of 
the Gospels. Her whole life had been pure, unselfish love 
and self-sacrifice. 

What if her creed might have been more lofty, if her life 
might have been devoted to higher aims? is this pure soul 
an 3 ' the less deserving of love and admiration on that ac- 
count? 

She accomplished the best and grandest deed in this life : 
she died without regret or fear. 

She was buried, in accordance with her wish, not far from 
the chapel which stood upon mamma’s grave. The hillock, 
overgrown with brambles and burdock, beneath which she 
lies, is enclosed within an black iron paling ; but I never 
forget to go from the chapel to that railing, and bow myself 
to the earth in reverence. 

Sometimes I pause silent, midway between the chapel and 
that black fence. Painful reminiscences suddenly penetrate 
m\^ soul. The thought comes to me : Did Providence con- 
nect me wiili these two beings merel}' in order that I miglit 
be made to mourn for them forever? 


PAET lI.-BOYnOOD. 


A NOVEL. 



BOYHOOD. 


CHAPTER I. 

A JOURNEY WITHOUT RELAYS 

Two equipages were again brought to the porch of the 
Petrovskoe house : one was a coach in which sat Mimi, 
Katenka, Liubotchka, and the maid, with the clerk Yakov on 
the box ; the other was a britchka, in which rode \Ylodya 
and I, and the footman Vasili who had recently been taken 
from ohroli'.^ 

Papa, who was to follow us to Moscow in a few days, 
stands on the porch without his hat, and makes the sign 
of the cross upon the window of the coach and the britchka. 

Well, Christ be with you ! drive on ! ” Yakov and the 
coachman (we are travelling in our own carriage) take otf 
their hats, and cross themselves. ^^No! No! In God’s 
name ! ” 

The bodies of the carriage and britchka begin to jolt 
over the uneven road, and the birches along the great ave- 
nue fly past us one by one. I am not at all sad ; my men- 
tal gaze is flxed, not upon what I am leaving, but upon what 
awaits me. In proportion as the objects connected with the 
painful memories which have filled my mind until this mo- 
ment retreat into the distance, these memories lose their 
force, and are s})eedily replaced b}^ a sense of acquaintance- 
ship with life, which is full of force, fi-eshness, and hope. 

Parely have I spent days so — I will not say merrily, for 

1 A fium paid to the proprietor by a serf in lieu of personal service. Many serfs 
of both se.\es exercised various trades ia the cities, and their obrok ofteu yielded 
their masters quite a sum. 


115 


116 


BOYHOOD. 


I was still rather conscience-stricken at the idea of yielding 
to merriment — but so agreeably, so pleasantly, as the four 
during which our journey lasted. 

I Jiad no longer before my eyes the closed door of 
mamma’s room, which I could not pass without a shudder; 
nor the closed piano, which no one approached, but which 
every one regarded with a sort of fear ; nor the mourning 
garments (we all had on simple travelling suits), nor any of 
those things, which, by recalling to me vividly my irrevo- 
cable loss, made me avoid every appearance of life, from 
the fear of offending her memory in some way. Here, on 
the other hand, new and picturesque spots and objects aiTest 
and divert my attention, and nature in its spring garb fixes 
firmly in my mind the cheering sense of satisfaction in the 
present, and bright hopes for the future. 

Karly, very early in the morning, pitiless Vasili, who was 
over-zeulous as people always are in new situations, pulls ot¥ 
the coverlet, and announces that it was time to set out, and 
that every thing is ready. Snuggle and rage and contrive 
as you will to prolong even for another quarter of an hour 
the sweet morning slumber, you see by Vasili’s determined 
face that he is inexorable, and prepared to drag off the 
coverlet twenty times : so you jump up, and run out into 
the court to wash yourself. 

The samovar is already boiling in the ante-room, and 
Mitka the out-rider is blowing it until he is as red as a crab. 
It is damp and dark out of doors, as though the steam were 
rising from an odoriferous dung-heap ; the sun illuminates 
the eastern skj^ with a bright cheerful light, and the straw 
roofs of the ample sheds surrounding the court-yard, which 
are sparkling with dew. Beneath them our horses are visi- 
ble, hitched about the fodder, and the peaceful sound of 
their mastication is audible. 

A shaggy black dog who has lain down upon a dry heap 
of manure before dawn, stretches lazily, and betakes him- 
self to the other side of the yard at a gentle trot, wagging 
his tail the while. The busy housewife opens the creaking 
gates, drives the meditative cows into the street, where the 
tramp, lowing and bleating of herds is already audible, and 
exchanges a word with her sleepy neighbor. Philip, with 
the sleeves of his shirt stripped up, draws the bucket from 
the deep well, all dripping with clear water, l)y means of the 
wheel, and empties it into an oaken trough, about which wide- 


BOYHOOD. 


117 


awake ducks are already splashing in the pool ; and I gaze 
with pleasure upon Philip’s handsome face with its great 
beard, and at the thick sinews and muscles which are sharply 
detined upon his bare, hairy arms when he makes any exer- 
tion . ^ 

Behind the screen where Mimi slept with the girls, and ' 
over which we had conversed in the evening, a movement j 
was audible. Mascha runs past us repeatedly with various 
objects which she endeavors to conceal from our curiosity 
with her dress ; and finally she opens the door, and calls us 
to drink our tea. 

Vasili, in a fit of superfluous zeal, runs into the room 
incessantly, carries out first one thing, then another, beckons 
to us, and in every way exhorts Mary a Ivanovna to set out 
as speedily as possible. The horses are harnessed, and 
express their impatience by jingling their bells every now 
and then ; the trunks, chests, caskets, and dressing-cases are 
again packed away, and we take our seats. But each time 
we find a mountain inside the britchka instead of a seat, 
so that it is impossible to understand how all this had been 
arranged the day before, and how we are going to sit now. 
One walnut-wood tea-caddj' with a triangular cover, in par- 
ticular, which is intrusted to us in the britchka, is placed 
under me, and enrages me extremely. But Vasili says that 
will settle down, and I am forced to believe him. 

The sun has but just risen above the dense white clouds 
which veil the east, and all the country round about is illumi- 
nated with a quietly cheerful light. All is so very beauti- 
ful about me, and I am so tranquil and light of heart. The 
road winds away in front like a wide, unconfined ribbon, 
amid fields of dry stubble, and herbage sparkling with 
dew. Here and there by the roadside we come upon a 
gloomy willow, or a young bircli with small sticky leaves, 
casting a long, motionless shadow upon the dry clayey ruts 
and tiie short green grass of the highway. The monot- 
onous sound of the wheels and bells does not drown the 
song of the larks, who circle close to the very road. The 
smell of moth-eaten cloth, of dust, and a certain sourness, 
which characterize our britchka, is overpowered by the per- 
fume of the morning ; and I feel a joyous uneasiness in my 
soul, a desire to do something, which is a sign of true en- 
joyment. 

J liad not managed to say my prayers at the post-house ; 


118 


BOYUOOD, 


but as I have more than once observed that some misfortune 
happens to me on the clay when, from any circumstance, I 
forget to fulfil this ceremony, 1 make an effort to repair my 
mistake. I take off my cap, turn to the corner of tlie 
britchka, recite some prayers, and cross myself under my 
\ jacket so that no one may see it. But a tliousand different 
J objects distract my attention ; and I repeat the same words 
of the prayer several times over, in my absence of mind. 

Yoncler on the footpath which winds beside the road, 
some slowi}’^ moving figures are visible ; the}’ are pilgrims. 
Their heads are enveloped in dirty cloths ; sacks of birch- 
bark are bound upon their backs ; their feet are wrapped 
in dirty, tattered footbands, and shod in heavy bast shoes. 
Swaying their staves in unison, and hardly glancing at us, 
they move on with a heav}’ deliberate tread, one after the 
other ; and questions take possession of- my mind, — whither 
are they going, and why? will their journey last long? and 
will the long shadows which they cast upon the roacl, soon 
unite with the shadow of the willow which they must pass? 
Here a calash with four post-horses comes rapidly to meet us. 
Two seconds more, ancl the faces which looked at us with 
polite curiosity at a distance of two arshins ^ have already 
flashed past ; and it seems strange that these faces have 
nothing in common with me, and that, in all probability I 
shall never behold them again. 

Here come two shaggy, perspiring horses, galloping along 
the side of the road in their halters, with the traces knotted 
up to the breech strap ; and behind, with his long legs and 
huge shoes dangling on each side of a horse, over whose 
forelock hangs the and who jingles his little bells almost 
inaudibly now and then, rides a young lad of a postilion, 
with his lamb’s-wool cap cocked over one ear, drawling a 
long-drawn-out song. His face and attitude are expressive 
of so much lazy, careless content, that it seems to me it 
would be the height of bliss to be a post-boy, to ride the 
horses home, and sing some melancholy songs. Yonder, far 
beyond the ravine, a village church with its green roof is 
visible against the bright blue sky ; yonder is a hamlet, the 
red roof of a gentleman’s house, and a green garden. Who 
lives in this house? Are there children in it, father, mother, 
tutor? AVhy should we not go to this house, and make the 

1 An arsliin is t\venty-eii;ht inches. 

2 Arch over the middle horse of a troika, or three horses harnessed abreast. 


BOY HOOT). 


119 


acquaintance of the owner? Here is a long train of huge 
wagons harnessed to troikas of well-fed, thick-legged horses, 
which we are obliged to turn out to pass. Wiiat are yon 
carrying?” inqnii-es Vasili of the first carter, who, with his 
big feet hanging from the board which forms his seat, and 
Nourishing his whip, regards ns for a long time with an 
intent, mindless gaze, and only makes some sort of reply 
when it is impossible for him not to hear. '' With what 
wares do yon travel? ” A'asili asks, turning to another team, 
upon w'hose railed-in front lies another carter beneath a new 
rng. A blonde head, accompanied by a j-ed face and a red- 
dish beard, is thrust out from beneath the rug for a moment ; 
it casts a glance of indifferent scorn upon ns, and disappears 
again ; and the thought occurs to me that these carters surely 
cannot know who wm are and wdiither we are going. 

Absorbed in varied meditations, for an hour and a half I 
pay no heed to the crooked numbers inscribed upon the verst- 
stones. But now the sun begins to warm my head and back 
w’ith more fervor, the road grows more dusty, the triangular 
cover of the tea-cadd}' begins to discommode me greatly, and 
I change my position several times. I am becoming hot and 
uncomfortable and bored. My whole attention is directed to 
the verst-stones, and the figures upon them. I make various 
mathematical calculations as to the time it will take us to 
reach the station. 

“ Tw’elve versts make one-third of thii-ty-six, and it is 
forty-one to Lipetz : consequently wo have travelled only 
one-third and how much?” and so forth. 

“Vasili,” I say, wdien I observe that he is beginning to 
nod upon the box, “ let me come on the box, that’s a dear.” 
Vasili consents ; w'e change places ; he immediately begins 
to snore and roll about so that there is no room left for any 
one in the britchka ; and before me, from the height wdiich I 
occupy, the most delightful picture presents itself, — our four 
horses, Nerutchinskaya, the Deacon, Lyevaya, the pole-horse, 
and Apothecary, all of wdiom I know by heart in the most 
minute details and shades of each quality. 

“ AVhy is the Deacon on the right side to-day instead of 
on the left, Philip?” I inquired wdth some diffidence. 

“ Deacon ? ” 

“ And Nerutchinskaya is not drawing at all,” T say- 

“ It is impossible to harness the Deacon on the left,” says 
Phili[), paying no attention to my last remark. '■" He is not 


L20 


BOYHOOD. 


;lie kind of a horse which can be harnessed on the left ; on 
the left a horse is needed which is a horse, in one word, and 
he’s not such a horse as that.” 

And with these words Philip bends over to the right, and, 
pnlling on the reins with all his might, he begins to whip 
poor Deacon on the tail and legs, in a peculiar manner, from 
below ; and in spite of the fact that Deacon tries with all his 
might, and drags the whole britchka along, Philip ceases 
this mameuvre only when he finds it necessaiy to take a rest 
and to tip his hat over on one side, for some unknown 
reason, although it was sitting very properly and firmly on 
his head already. I take advantage of this favorable oi)por- 
tunity, and beg Philip to let me drive. At first Philip gives 
me one rein, then another; and finally all six reins and the 
whip are transferred to my hands and, I am perfectly happy. 
I endeavor in every wa}" to imitate Philii) ; I ask him whether 
that is right : but it generally ends in his leaving me dissatis- 
fied ; he saj's that one horse is pulling a great deal, and that 
another is not pulling at all, thrusts his elbow out in front 
of my lu'east, and takes the reins away from me. The heat 
increases continnallv. The little white clouds, which we call 
sheep, begin to puff up higher and higher, like soap-bubbles, 
then unite and take on a dark-gray tint. A hand, holding a 
bottle and a little package, emerges from the coach window. 
Vasili leaps from the box with wonderful agility, while we 
are in motion, and brings us little cheesecakes and kvas. 

We all alight from the carriages at a sharp descent, and 
have a race to the bridge, while Vasili and Yakov put on the 
brakes, and support the coach on both sides with their hands 
as though they were able to restrain it if it fell. Then, with 
Mimi’s permission, either I or Volodya seat ourselves in 
the coach, and Linbotchka or Katenka takes the place in the 
britchka. These changes afford the girls great tileasnre, be- 
cause, as they justly decide, it is jollier in the britchka. 
Sometimes, when it is hot and we are passing througli the 
woods, we linger behind the coach, tear off green boughs, and 
build an arbor in the britchka. This moving arbor overtakes 
the coach, and Linbotchka pipes u}) in the most piercing of 
voices, which she never forgets to do on any occasion which 
affords her pleasure. 

Put here is the village where we are to dine and rest. We 
have already smelled the village, the smoke, tar, lamb-skins. 
WT have heard the sound of conversation, steps and wheels ; 


BOYHOOD. 


121 


the bells already sound differently from what they did in the 
open fields ; and izhcts (cottages) appear on either side with 
their thatched roofs, carved wooden porches, and little win- 
dows with red and green shutters, between which the face 
of a curious woman peei)s out. Here are the little peasant 
boys and girls, clad only in thin little smocks, who open 
their eyes wide, and throw out their hands and stand motion- 
less on one spot, or run swiftly with their little bare feet 
through the dust, after the carriages, and try to climb upon 
the trunks, in spite of Philip’s menacing gestures. The 
blonde'inhabitants hasten up to the carriages from every di- 
rection, and endeavor, with alluring words and gestures, to 
entice the travellers from each other. Tpru ! the gate creaks, 
the splinter-bar catches on the gate-posts, and we enter the 
court-yard. Four hours of rest and freedom ! 


122 


BOYHOOD. 


CHAPTER II. 

THE THUNDER-STORM. 

The sun declined towards the west, and burned my neck 
and cheeks intolerably with its hot, slanting rays. It was im- 
possible to touch the scorching sides of the britchka. The 
dust rose thickly in the road, and filled the air. There was 
not the slightest breeze to carry it awaju In front of ns, and 
always at the same distance, rolled the tall, dusty body of the 
coach and the splinter-bar, from behind which, now and then, 
the knout was visible as the coachman flourished it, as well 
as his hat and Yakov’s cap. I did not know what to do with 
myself ; neither Volodya’s face, which was black with dust, 
as he dozed beside me, nor the movements of Philip’s back, 
nor the long shadow of onr britchka, which followed ns be- 
neath the oblique rays of the sun, afforded me any diversion. 
My entire attention was directed to the verst-stones, which I 
perceived in the distance, and to the clouds, which had be- 
fore been scattered over the sky, and had now collected into 
one big, dark mass. From time to time, the thunder rum- 
bled afar. This last circumstance, more than all the rest, in- 
creased my impatience to reach the post-house as speedily as 
possible. A thunder-storm occasioned me an indescribably 
oppressive sensation of sadness and terror. 

It was still ten versts to the nearest ; but the great, dark, 
purple cloud which had collected, God knows whence, without 
the smallest breeze, was moving swiftly upon ns. The sun, 
which is not yet hidden by the clouds, brightly illumines its 
dark form, and the gray streaks which extend from it to the 
very horizon. From time to time, the lightning flashes in 
the distance ; and a faint, dull roar is audible, which gradu- 
ally increases in volume, approaches, and changes into 
broken peals which embrace the whole heavens. Vasili stands 
upon the box, and raises the cover of the britchka. The 
coachmen put on their armyaks, and, at every clap of thun- 


BOYHOOD. 


123 


(ler, remove their hats and cross themselves. The horses 
prick up their ears, putf out their nostrils as if smelling the 
fresh air which is wafted from the ap[)roaching thunder-cloud, 
and the britchka rolls faster along the dusty road. I feel 
oi)pressed, and am conscious that the blood courses more 
rapidly through my veins. But the advance guard of clouds 
already begins to conceal the sun ; now it has i)ecped forth for 
the last time, has illumined the terribly dark portion of the 
horizon, and vanished. The entire laudscai)e suddenly under- 
goes a change, and assumes a gloomy character. The ash 
woods quiver; the leaves take on a kind of dull whitish hue, 
and stand out against the imrple background of cloud, and 
rustle and tlutter ; the crowns of the great birches begin to 
rock, and tufts of dry grass tly across the road. The water 
and white-breasted swallows circle about the britchka, and fly 
beneath the horses, as though with the intention of stopping 
us ; daws with rutfled wings fly sideways to the wind : the 
edges of the leather apron, which we have buttoned up, begin 
to rise, and admit bursts of moist wind, and flap and beat 
against the body of the carriage. The lightning seems to 
flash in the britchka itself, dazzles the vision, and for a 
moment lights up the gray cloth, the border gimp, and Vo- 
lodya’s figure cowering in a corner. At the same moment, 
directly above our heads, a majestic roar resounds, which 
seems to rise ever higher and liigher, and to spread ever 
wider and wider, in a vast spiral, gradually gaining force, 
until it })asscs into a deafening crash, which causes one to 
tremble and hold one’s breath involuntaril}’. d'he wrath of 
God ! how much poetry there is in this conception of the 
common peoi)Ie ! 

The wheels whirl faster and faster. From the backs of 
Vasily and Philip, who is flourishing his reins, I i)erceive that 
they are afraid. The britchka rolls swiftl}’ down the hill, 
and thunders over the bridge of planks. 1 am afraid to 
move, and momentarily await our universal destruction. 

Tpru ! the trace is broken, and in spile of the unceasing, 
deafening claps of thunder, we are forced to halt upon the 
bridge. 

I lean my head against the side of the britchka, and, catch- 
ing my breath with a sinking of the heart, I listen despair- 
ingly to the movements of Philip’s fat black fingers, as he 
slowly ties a knot, and straightens out the traces, and strikes 
the side horse with palm and whip-handle. 


124 


BOYHOOD. 


The uneasy feelings of sadness and terror increase within 
me with the force of the storm ; but when the grand mo- 
ment of silence arrives, which generally precedes the thun- 
der-clap, ■ these feelings had reached such a point, that, if 
this state of things had lasted a quarter of an hour, 1 am 
convinced that I should have died of excitement. At the 
same moment, there appears from beneath the bridge a 
human form, clothed in a dirty, ragged shirt, with a bloated 
senseless face, a shaven, wagging, totally uncovered head, 
crooked, nerveless legs, and a shining red stump in place 
of a hand, which he thrusts out directly at the britchka. 

“ Ba-a-schka ! ^ Help-a-cripple-for-Christ’s-sake ! ” says 
the beggar, beginning to repeat his petition by rote, in a 
weak voice, as he crosses himself at every word, and bows 
to his very belt. 

I cannot describe the feeling of chill terror which took 
possession of my soul at that moment. A shudder ran 
through my hair, and my eyes were riveted on the beggar, 
in a stupor of fright. 

Vasili, who bestows the alms on the journey, is giving 
Philip directions how to strengthen the trace ; and it is onl}' 
when all is ready, and Philip, gathering up the reins, climbs 
upon the box, that he begins to draw something from his 
side pocket. But we have no sooner started than a dazzling 
flash of lightning, which fills the whole ravine for a moment 
with its fiery glare, brings the horses to a stand, and is ac- 
companied, without the slightest interval, b}' such a deafen- 
ing clap of thunder that it seems as though the whole vault 
of heaven were falling in ruins upon us. The wind increases ; 
the manes and tails of the horses, Vasily’s cloak, and the 
edges of the apron, take one direction, and flutter wildly in 
the bursts of the raging gale. A great drop of rain fell 
heavil}' upon the leather hood of the britchka, then a second, 
a third, a fourth ; and all at once it beat upon us like a 
drum, and the whole landscape resounded with the regular 
murmur of falling rain. 1 perceive, from the movement of 
Vasili’s elbow, that he is untying his purse ; the beggar, still 
crossing himself and bowing, runs close to the wheel, so that 
‘t seems as if he would be crushed. “ Give-for-Christ’s- 
ike ! ” At last a copper groschen flies past us, and the 
retched creature halts with surprise in the middle of the 
vd ; his smock, wet through and through, and clinging to 

^ Imperfect pronunciation of batiuschka, little father. 


BOYHOOD. 125 

his lean limbs, flutters in the gale, and he disappears from 
our sight. 

The slanting rain, driving before a strong wind, poured 
down as from a bucket ; streams trickled from Vasili’s frieze 
back into the puddle of dirty water which had collected on 
the apron. The dust, which at first had been beaten into 
pellets, was converted into liquid mud, through which the 
wheels si)lashed ; the jolts became fewer, and turbid brooks 
flowed in the ruts. The lightning-flashes grew broader and 
paler ; the thunder-claps were no longer so startling after the 
uniform sound of the rain. 

Now the rain grows less violent; the thunder-cloud begins 
to disperse ; light appears in the place where the sun should 
be, and a scrap of clear azure is almost visible through the 
grayish- white edges of the cloud. A moment more, and 
a timid ray of sunlight gleams in the pools along the road, 
upon the sheets of fine, perpendicular rain which fall as if 
through a sieve, and upon the shining, newly washed verdure 
of the wayside grass. 

The black thunder-cloud overspreads the opposite portion 
of the sky in equall}’ threatening fashion, but J no longer 
fear it. 1 experience an inexpressibly joyous feeling of hope 
in life, which has quickly taken the place of my oppressive 
sensation of fear. My soul smiles, like Nature, refreshed 
and enlivened. 

Vasily turns down his coat-collar, takes off the apron, and 
shakes it. • I lean out of the britchka, and eagerly drink 
in the fresh, perfumed air. The shining, well-washed body of 
the coach, with its cross-bar and trunks, rolls along in front 
of us ; the backs of the horses, the breeching and reins, 
the tires of the wheels, all are wet, and glitter in the sun as 
though covered with lacquer. On one side of the road, a 
limitless field of winter wheat, intersected here and there by 
shallow channels, gleams with damp earth and verdure, and 
spreads in a carpet of varying tints to the very horizon ; on 
the other side an ash grove, with an undergrowth of nut- 
bushes and wild cherry, stands as in an overflow of bliss, 
quite motionless, and slowly sheds the bright rain-drops from 
its well-washed branches upon last year’s dry leaves. Crest- 
ed larks flutter about on all sides with joyous song and fall ; 
in the wet bushes, the uneasy movements of little bii'ds are 
audible, and the note of the cuckoo is wafted distinctly 
from the heart of the wood. The marvellous perfume of the 


126 


BOTnOOD. 


forest is so enchanting after this spring thnncler-storm, the scent 
of the birches, the violets, the dead leaves, the mushrooms, 
the wild-cherry trees, that I cannot sit still in the britchka, 
but jump from the step, run to the bushes, and in spite of 
tlie sliower of rain-drops 1 tear off branches of the fluttering 
cherry-trees, switch my face with them, and drink in tlieir 
wondrous perfume. 

Without heeding the fact that great clods of mud adhere 
to my boots, and that my stockings were wet through long 
ago, 1 si)lash through the mud, at a run, to the window of 
the coach. 

“ Liubotchka ! Katenka ! ” I cry, handing in several 
branches of cherry, “ see how beautiful ! ” 

The girls pipe up, and cry “ah!” Mimi screams that 
I am to go away, or I shall infallibly be crushed. 

“ Smell how sweet it is ! ” 1 shout. 


BOYHOOD. 


127 


CHAPTER III. 

A NEW VIEW. 

Katenka was sitting beside me in the britchka, and, with 
her pretty head bent, was tlionghtfnlly watching the dusty 
road as* it flew past beneath the wheels. I gazed at her 
in silence, and wondered at the sad, unchildish expression, 
which 1 encountered for the first time on her rosy little 
face. 

“ We shall soon be in Moscow now,” said I. “ What do 
you think it is like?” 

“I do not know,” she answered unwillingly. 

“ But what do you think? Is it bigger than Serpukhof, 
or not? ” 

‘‘What?” 

“Oh, nothing.” 

But through that instinct by means of wdiich one person 
divines the thoughts of another, and which serves as a guid- 
ing-thread in conversation, Katenka understood that her in- 
ditference pained me: she raised her head, and turned 
towards me. 

“Your papa has told yon that w^e are to live with grand- 
mamma? ” 

“ Yes, grandmamma insists on our living with her.” 

“ And we are all to live there? ” 

“Of course: w^e shall live np-stairs in one half of the 
house ; you will live in the other half, and papa will live 
in the wing ; but we shall all dine together down-stairs with 
grandmamma.” 

“Mamma sa3's that ^-our grandmother is so majestic — 
and cross.” 

“No-o! She only seems so at first. She is majestic, 
but not at all cross : on the contrary, she is very kind and 
cheerful. If you had only seen what a ball we had on her 
name-day ! ” 


128 


BOYHOOD. 


‘^Nevertheless, I am afraid of her; and besides, God 
knows if we shall ” — 

Katenka stopped suddenly, and again fell into thought. 

“ What is it? ” I asked uneasily. 

“ Nothing.” 

“ Yes, but you said, ‘ God knows ’ ” — 

“ And you said, ' What a ball we had at grandmamma’s.’ ” 

“Yes, it’s a pity that you were not there: there were 
ever so many guests, — forty people, music, generals, and I 
danced. Katenka ! ” 1 said all at once, pausing in the middle 
of my description, “you are not listening.” 

Yes, I am : you said that you danced.” 

‘ ‘ AVhy are you so sad ? ” 

“ One can’t be gay all the time.” 

“No: you have changed greatly since we returned from 
Moscow. Tell me truly,” I added, with a look of determi- 
nation, as I turned towards her, “why have you grown so 
strange? ” 

“Am I strange ?” replied Katenka, with an animation 
which showed that my remark interested her. “ 1 am not 
at all strange.” 

“ You are not as you were formerly,” I went on. “ It 
used to be evident that we were one in every thing, that 3^011 
regarded us as relatives, and loved us, just as we did you ; 
and now 3’ou have become so serious, you keep apart from 
us ” — 

“ Not at all ! ” 

“No, let me finish,” I interrupted, alread}" beginning to 
be conscious of a slight tickling in my nose, whicli preceded 
the tears that were always rising to my eyes, when I gave 
utterance to a long-repressed, tender thought. You with- 
draw from us ; 3^011 talk 01113" with Mimi, as if you did not 
want to know us.” 

“Well, it’s impossible to remain the same always; one 
must change some time,” replied Katenka, who had a habit 
of explaining every thing by a kind of fatalistic necessity, 
when she did not know what to say. 

1 remember that once, after quarrelling with Liubotchka, 
who had called ham stupid little girl^ she answered, “ Every- 
body cannot be wise: some people must be stupid.” But 
tliis reply, that a change was necessary sometimes, did not 
satisfy me, and I pursued my inquiries : 

“ Why is it necessary? ” 


BOYHOOD. 


129 


“ AVliy, we can’t live together always,” answered Katen- 
ka, reddening slightly, and staring steadily at Philip’s back. 
“ jMy mamma could live with your dead mamma, because she 
was her friend ; but God knows whether she will get along 
with the countess, who is said to be so cross. Besides, we 
must part some da}', in any case. You are rich, you have 
Petrovskoe ; but we are poor, my mamma has nothing.” 

You are rich ; we are poor 1 These words, and tlie ideas 
connected with them, seemed very strange to me. Accord- 
ing to my notions at that period, only beggars and peasants 
could be poor, and this idea of poverty 1 could never rec- 
oncile ill my imagination with pretty, graceful Katya. ■ It 
seemed to me, that, since Mimi and Katya had once lived 
with us, they would always do so, and share every thing 
equally. It could not be otherwise. But now a thousand 
new, undefined thoughts, touching their position, dawned on 
my brain ; and I was so ashamed that we were rich, that I 
blushed, and positively corld not look Katenka in the face. 

‘‘What does it mean?” I thought, “that we are rich 
and they are poor? And how does that entail the neces- 
sity of a separation? Why cannot we share what we have 
equally?” But I understood that it was not fitting that I 
should speak to Katenka about this ; and some practical in- 
tinct, which ran contrary to these logical deductions, already 
told me that she was right, and that it would be out of place 
to explain this idea to her. 

“Are you actually going to leave us?” I said. “How 
shall we live apart? ” 

“ What is to be done? It pains me too ; but if this takes 
place, I know what I shall do.” 

“ You will become an actress ! What nonsense ! ” I broke 
in, knowing that it had always been one of her cherished 
dreams to be, an actress. 

“ No : I said that when I was very small.” 

“ What will you do, then? ” 

I will go into a monastery, and live there, and go about 
in a black gown and a velvet hood.” 

Katenka began to cry. 

Has it ever happened to you, reader, to perceive, all at 
once, at a certain period of your life, that your view of things 
has entirely changed : as tliougli all the objects which you 
had seen hitherto had suddenly tuiaied another side to you? 
This species of moral change took place in me for the first 


130 


BOYHOOD. 


time during our journey, from which epoch I date the begin- 
ning of my boyhood. 

For the first time a distinct idea entered my head, that not 
our family alone inhabited this world ; that all interests did 
not revolve about us; and that there exists another life for 
l)eople who have nothing in common with us, who care noth- 
ing for us, who have no idea of our existence even. No 
doubt, I had known all this before ; but 1 had not known it 
as I knew it now. 1 did not acknowledge it or feel it. 

A thought often passes into conviction by one familiar 
path, which is often entirel}' unexpected and apart from the 
paths which other souls traverse to arrive at the same con- 
clusion. The conversation with Katenka, which affected me 
powerfully, and caused me to reflect upon her future position, 
constituted that path for me. When I looked at the villages 
and towns which we traversed, in every house of which lived 
at least one such family as ours ; at the women and children 
who gazed after our carriages with momentaiy curiosity, and 
vanished forever from sight ; at the shopkeepers and the 
peasants, who not only did not salute us as I was accustomed 
to see them do in Petrovskoe, but did not deign so much as 
a glance, — the question entered my mind for the first time, 
what could occupy them if they cared nothing for us? And 
from this question, others arose : how and by what means do 
they live? how do they bring up their children? do they in- 
struct them, or let them play? how do they punish them? 
and so forth. 


BOYHOOD. 


131 


CHAPTER IV. 

IN MOSCOW. 

On our arrival in Moscow, the change in my views of 
things, people, and my own relations to them, became still 
more sensible. When, at my first meeting with grandmamma, 
I saw her thin wrinkled face and dim eyes, the feeling of 
servile reverence and terror which I had entertained for her 
changed to one of sympathy. It made me uncomfortable to 
see her sorrow at meeting ns. I recognized the fact that 
we, of ourselves, were nothing in her eyes ; that we were 
dear to her as memories. I felt that this thought was ex- 
pressed in every one of the kisses with which she covered 
my cheeks : ‘‘She is dead; she is gone; I shall never see 
her more.’’ 

Papa, who had next to nothing to do with us in Moscow, 
and, with ever-anxious face, came to us onW at dinner-time, in 
a black coat or dress-suit, lost a great deal' in my eyes, along 
with his big flaring collars, his dressing-gown, his stewards, 
his clerks, and his expeditions of the threshing-floor and hunt- 
ing. Karl Ivanitch, whom grandmamma called dyadJai, and 
wiio had suddenly taken it into his head, God knows why, to 
excliange his respectable and familiar baldness for a red wig 
with a parting almost in the middle of his head, seemed to 
me so strange and ridiculous, that I wondered how I could 
have failed to remark it before. 

Some invisible barrier also made its appearance between 
the girls and us. Both they and we had our own secrets. 
They seemed to take on airs before us over their petticoats, 
which grew longer, and we were proud of our trousers with 
straps. And Mimi appeared at the first Sunday dinner in 
such an elegant gown, and with such ribbons on her head, 
tliat it was at once apparent that we were not in the country, 
and that eveiy thing was to be different now. 


132 


BOYHOOD. 


CHAPTER V. 

THE ELDER BROTHER. 

I WAS onl}" a 3’ear and some months 3"oiinp;er than Volod^'a : 
we had grown np, studied and played together always. The 
distinction of elder and younger was not made between us. 
But just about the time of which I am speaking I began to 
comprehend that Volodya was not my comrade in years, in- 
clinations, and qualities. It even seemed to me that Volod^^a 
recognized his superiority, and was proud of it. This con- 
viction, possibly a false one, inspired me with self-love, 
which sutfered at every encounter with him. He stood 
higher than 1 in every thing, — in amusements, in studies, in 
quarrels, in the knowledge of how to conduct himself ; and 
all this removed me to a distance from him, and caused me 
to experience moral torments which were incomprehensible 
to me. If, on the first occasion when Volodya put on linen 
shirts with plaits, I had said plainly that I was vexed at not 
having the same, I am sure that I should have been more 
comfortable, and it would not have seemed, every time that 
he adjusted his collar, that it was done solelj' in order to hurt 
m\' feelings. 

What tormented me most of all was, that Volodya under- 
stood me, as it seemed to me at times, but tried to hide it. 

Who has not remarked those secret, wordless relations 
which are shown in an imperceptible smile, a motion or a 
glance, between people who live together constantly, brothers, 
friends, husband and wife, master and servant, and })articu- 
larly when these people are not in every respect frank Avith 
each other ! How many unuttered desires, thoughts, and 
fears — of being understood — are expi-cssed in one casual 
glance when our eyes meet timidly and irresolutely ! 

But i)ossibly I was deceived on this point by my excessive 
sensibility, and tendency to analysis ; perha[)S Volodya did 
not feel at all as I did. He was- impetuous, frank, and in- 


BOYHOOD, 


133 


constant in his im?mlses. He was carried away by the most 
diverse objects, s ad he entered into them with his whole 
soul. 

At one time a passion for pictures took possession of him ; 
he took to drawing himself, spent all his money ou it, begged 
of his drawing-master, of papa and of grandmamma ; then it 
was a passion for articles with which he decorated his table, 
and he collected them from all parts of the house *. then a 
})assion for romances, which he procured on the sly, and read 
all da}’ and all night. I was involuntarily carried away by 
his hobbies ; but 1 was too proud to follow in his footsteps, 
and too young and too little self-dependent to select a new 
path. But there was nothing which I envied so much as 
Volodya’s happy, frank, and noble character, which was dis- 
played with special clearness in the quarrels which took place 
between us. I felt that he behaved well, but could not 
imitate him. 

Once, during the greatest fervor of his passion for orna- 
mental articles, I went up to his table, and uninteiitionally 
broke an empty variegated little smelling-bottle. 

“ Who asked you to touch my things? ” said Volod^’a, as 
he entered the room, and perceived the havoc which 1 had 
wrouglit in the symmetry of the varied ornaments of his 
table; “and where’s that little smelling-bottle? you must 
have ’ ’ — 

“I dropped it unintentionally: it broke. Where’s the 
harm ? ’ ’ 

“ Please never to dare to touch my things,” he said, put- 
ting the bits of the broken bottle together, and regarding 
them sorrowfully. 

“ Please don't give any orders,," I retorted. “ I broke it, 
that’s the end of it: what’s the use of talking about it? ” 

And 1 smiled, although I had not the least desire to smile. 

“ Yes, it’s nothing to 3’ou, but it’s something to me,” went 
0:1 Volodya, making that motion of shrugging his shoulders 
which he had inherited from papa: “he has broken it, and 
yet he laughs, this intolerable little hoy ! ” 

“ I am a little boy, Init you are big and stupid.” 

“ I don’t mean to quarrel with you,” said Volodya, giving 
me a slight push : “go away.” 

“ Don’t yon push me ! ” 

“ Go away ! ” 

“ I tell you, don’t you push me ! ” 


134 


BOYHOOD. 


Volodya took me by the hand, and tried to drag me away 
from the table ; but 1 was irritated to the highest degi’ee. I 
seized the table by the leg, and tipped it over. Take that ! ” 
and all the ornaments of porcelain and glass were shivered 
in pieces on the floor. 

You disgusting little boy ! ” shrieked Volodya, attempt- 
ing to uphold the falling ornaments. 

“Well, every thing is at an end between us now!” I 
thought, as I quitted the room: “we have quarrelled for- 
ever. ’ ’ 

We did not speak to each other until evening: I felt 
myself in the wrong, was afraid to look at him, and could 
not occupy myself with any thing all day long. Volodya, on 
the contrary, studied well, and chatted and laughed with the 
girls after dinner, as usual. 

As soon as our teacher had finished his lessons, I left the 
room. I was too afraid, awkward, and conscience-stricken 
to remain alone with my brother. After the evening lesson 
in history, I took my note-book, and started towards tlie 
door. As I passed Volod 3 ^a, in spite of the fact that I 
wanted to go up to him, and make peace, I pouted, and tried 
to put on an angry face. Volody'a raised his head just at 
that moment, and with a barely perceptible, good-naturedly 
derisive smile, looked l)oldly at me. Our ey^es met, and I 
knew that he understood me, and also that I understood that 
he understood me ; but an insuperable feeling made me turn 
away. 

“ Nikolinka 1 ” he said, in his usual simple and not at all 
pathetic voice : “ y^ou’ve been angry long enough. Forgive 
me if I insulted y’ou.” 

And he gave me his hand. 

All at once, something rose higher and higher in my breast, 
and began to oppress me, and stop my breath : tears came 
to my eyes, and I felt better. 

“ For-give me, Vol-dya! ” I said, squeezing his hand. 

But Volodya looked at me as though he could not at all 
comprehend why' there were tears in my eyes. 


BOYHOOD. 


135 


CHAPTER VI. 

MASCHA. 

But not one of the changes which took place in iny views 
of things was so surprising to me myself, as that in con- 
sequence of which I ceased to regard one of our maids as 
a servant of the female sex, and began to regard lier as a 
woman, on whom my peace and happiness might, in some 
degree, depend. 

From the time when I can remember any thing, I recall 
jMascha in our house ; and never, until the’ occasion which 
altered my view of her completely, and which I will relate 
presently, did I pay the slightest attention to her. Mascha 
was twenty-five when I was fourteen ; she was very pretty. 
But I am afraid to describe her. I fear lest my fancy should 
again present to me the enchanting and deceitful picture 
which existed in it during the period of my passion for her: 
In order to make no mistake, 1 will merely sa}", that she was 
remarkably white, luxuriantly developed, and was a woman ; 
and I was fourteen yeai-s old. 

At one of those moments when, with lesson in hand, you 
busy yourself with a promenade up and down the room, en- 
deavoring to step only on one crack in the floor, or with the 
singing of some incoherent air,' or the smearing of the edge 
of the table with ink, or ihe repetition, without the applica- 
tion of any thought, of some phrase, — in a word, at one of 
those moments when the mind refuses to act, and the ima- 
gination, assuming the upper hand, seeks an impression, — I 
stepped out of the schoolroom, and went down to the land- 
ing, without any object whatever. 

Some one in slii)pers was ascending the next turn of the 
stairs. Of course 1 wanted to know who it was ; but the 
sound of the footsteps suddenly ceased, and 1 heard Mas- 
cha’s voice : 

“ Now, what are you playing pranks for? Will it be well 
when Marya Ivanovna ccmjs? ” 


136 


BOYHOOD. 


“ She won’t come,” said Volodya’s voice in a whisper, 
and then there was some movement, as if Volodya had at- 
tempted to detain her. 

Now what are you doing with your hands? you shame- 
less fellow ! ” and Mascha ran past me with her necker- 
chief pushed to one side, so that her plump white neck was 
visible beneath it. 

I cannot exiu’ess the degree of amazement which this dis- 
covery caused me ; but the feeling of amazement soon gave 
way to sympathy with Volodya’s caper. What surprised me 
was not his behavior, but how he had got at tlie idea that 
it was pleasant to behave so. And involuntarily I began to 
want to imitate him. 

I somelimes spent whole hours on that landing, without 
a single thought, listening with strained attention to the 
slightest movement which proceeded from above ; but I 
never could force myself to imitate Volodya, in spite of the 
fact that I wanted to do it more than any thing else in the 
world. Sometimes, having concealed myself behind a door, 
I listened with envy and jealousy to the commotion which 
arose in the maids’ room, and the thought occurred to me, 
AVliat would be my position if 1 were to go up-stairs, and, 
like Volodya, try to kiss Mascha? What should 1, with my 
broad nose and flaunting tuft of hair, say when she asked me 
what I wanted? Sometimes I heard Mascha say to Volodya, 

Take that to punish you ! Why do you cling to me? Go 
away, you scamp ! Wliy doesn’t Nikolai Petrovitch ever 
come here and make a fool of himself? ” She did not know 
that Nikolai Petrovitch was at that moment sitting on the 
stairs, and would have given every thing in the world in 
order to be in the place of the scamp Volodya. 

I was modest by nature, but my modesty was further in- 
creased by the conviction of my own ugliness. And I am 
sure that nothing has such a decisive influence upon a man’s 
course as his personal appearance, and' not so much his 
appeai-ance as his belief in its attractiveness or unattrac- 
tiveness. 

I was too egotistical to become accustomed to my position, 
and consoled myself, like the fox, by assuring myself that 
the grapes were still green ; that is to say, 1 endeavored to 
despise all the pleasures derived from the pleasing exterior 
which Volodya enjoyed in my eyes, and which 1 envied with 
all my soul, and I strained eveiy nerve of my mind and 
imagination to find solace in proud solitude* 


BOYHOOD. 


137 


CHAPTER VII. 

SHOT. 

“My God, powder! ” screamed IMimi, panting with emo- 
tion. “What are you doing? Do 3''ou want to burn the 
house down, and ruin us all? ” 

And, with an indescribable expression of firmness, Mimi 
commanded all to retire, walked up to the scattered shot with 
long and determined strides, and, despising the danger which 
might result from a premature explosion, she l)egan to stamp 
it out with her feet. AVhen, in her opinion, the danger was 
averted, she called Mikhei, and ordered him to fling all that 
powder as far away as possible, or, what was better still, 
into the water ; and, proudly smoothing her cap, she betook 
herself to the drawing-room. “They are well looked after, 
there’s no denying that,” she grumbled. 

When papa came from the wing, and we accompanied him 
to grandmamma, Mimi was alread}^ seated near the window 
in her room, gazing threatening!}^ at the door with a certain 
mysteriously official expression. She held something envel- 
oped in paper in her hand. I guessed that it was the shot, 
and that grandmamma already knew every thing. 

In grandmamma’s room there were, besides Mimi, Gascha 
the maid, who, as was evident from her red and angry face, 
was very much put out; and Dr. Ifiumenthal, a small, pock- 
marked man, who was vainly endeavoring to calm Gascha by 
making mysterious and pacifying signs to her with his eyes 
and head. 

Grandmamma herself was sitting rather sideways, and lay- 
ing out her “ patience,” the Traveller., which always indicated 
an extremely unpro})itions frame of mind. 

“ How do you feel to-day, mamma? have you slept well? ” 
said pa})a, as he respectfully kissed lier hand. 

“ Verv well, my dear; I believe you know that I am 
always well,” replied grandmamma in a tone which seemed to 


138 


BOYHOOD. 


indicate that papa’s question was as misplaced and insulting 
as it could be. “Well, are you going to give me a clean 
handkerchief?” she continued, turning to Gascha. 

“ I have given it to you,” replied Gascha, pointing to a 
cambric handkerchief, as white as snow, which lay on the 
arm of the chair. 

“Take away that dirty thing, and give me a clean one, 
my dear.” 

Gascha went to the chiffonier^ pulled out a drawer, and 
slammed it in again with such force that all the glass in the 
room rattled. Grandmamma glanced round with a threaten- 
ino; look at all of us, and continued to watch the maid’s move- 
ments attentiveh^ When the latter gave her what appeared 
to me to be the same handkerchief, grandmamma said : 

“ When will you grind my snuff, my dear? ” 

“ When there’s lime. I’ll do it.” 

“ What did you say? ” 

“ I’ll do it to-day.” 

“ If you don’t wish to serve me, my dear, you might have 
said so ; I would have discharged you long ago.” 

“ If you discharge me, I sha’n’t cry,” muttered the maid 
in a low tone. 

At that moment the doctor tried to wink at her ; but she 
looked at him with so much anger and decision that he im- 
mediately dropped his eyes, and busied himself with his 
watch-key. 

“ You see, my dear,” said grandmamma, turning to papa, 
when Gascha, still muttering, had left the room, “ how people 
speak to me in my own house.” 

“ If you will permit me, mamma, I will grind yonr snuff,” 
said pai)a, who was evidently very much embarrassed by this 
unexpected behavior. 

“ No, 1 thank you ; she is impudent because she knows 
that no one but herself understands how to grind snuff as I 
like it. You know, my dear,” went on grandmamma, after a 
momentary pause, “ that your children came near setting 
the house on lire to-day? ” 

Papa gazed at grandmamma with respectful curiosity. 

“This is what they play with. — Show him,” she said, 
turning to IMimi. 

Pa[)a took the shot in his hand, and could not forbear a 
smile. 

“ Why, this is shot, mamma,” said he; “it’s not at all 
dangerous.” 


BOYHOOD. 


139 


“ I am very much oblio-ed to yon, my dear, for leach in 
me, only I’m too old.” 

“Nerves! nerves,” whispered the doctor. 

And papa immediately turned to us. 

“ Where did you get that? and how dare 3’ou play pranks 
with such things ? ” 

“Don’t ask them anything; }^ou must ask their dy- 
adka,”^ said grandmamma, pronouncing the word dyadka 
with particular contempt, “ what he is looking after.” 

“ Voldemar said that Karl Ivanitch himself gave him this 
powder,” put in Mimi. 

“Now 3^011 see what he is good for,” continued grand- 
mamma. “ And where is he, that dyadka., what’s his name? 
Send him here.” 

“ I gave him leave to go out and make a visit,” said papa. 

“ There’s no sense in that ; he ought to be here all the time. 
The children are not mine, but yours, and I have no right to 
advise 3"ou, because 3^011 are wiser than I,” pursued grand- 
mamma ; “ but it does seem as though it were time to engage 
a tutor for them, and not a v(det., a German peasant, — 3’es, a 
stupid peasant, who can teach them nothing except bad man- 
ners and T3U'olese songs. Is it extremel3" necessaiy, now, 
I ask 3^011, that children should know how to sing Tyrolese 
songs ? IIowcA^er, nobody thinks of this now, and you can do 
as you please.” 

The word “ now ” meant that they had no mother, and 
called up sad memories in grandmamma’s heart. She 
dropped her eyes on her snuff-box, with its portrait, and be- 
came thoughtful. 

“I have long been meditating that,” papa hastened to 
sa3g “ and I wanted to advise with 3^011, mamma. Shall we 
not invite St. Jerome, who is now giving them lessons by 
the day?” 

“ You will be doing extremely well, mv friend,” said 
grandmamma, and no longer in the dissatisfied tone in which 
she had spoken before. “ St. Jerome is at least a tutor who 
knows how children of good family should be trained, and 
not a paltiy valet, who is good for nothing but to take them 
to walk.” ' 

“I will speak with him to-moiTOw,” said papa. 

And, in fact, two days after this conversation, Karl Ivan- 
itch yielded his place to the young French dandy. 

1 Valet. 


140 


BOYHOOD. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

KARL IVANITCh’s HISTORY. 

Late on the evening which preceded the day which Karl 
Ivanitch was to leave us forever, he stood beside the bed in 
his wadded gown and red cap, bending over his trunk, and 
carefully packing his effects. 

Karl Ivanitch’s intercourse with us had been peculiarly dry 
of late. He seemed to avoid all connection with us ; so when 
1 MOW entered the room, he glanced askance at me, and went 
on with his work. I lay down on my bed, but Karl Ivanitch, 
who had in former times strictly prohibited this, said nothing 
to me ; and the thought that he would never more scold us or 
stop us, that he had no concern with us now, reminded me 
vividly of the approaching separation. I was sorry that he 
had ceased to love us, and wanted to express this feeling to 
him. “ Let me help you, Karl Ivanitch,” I said, going up 
to him. Karl Ivanitch glanced at me, and again turned 
aside ; but in the fleeting look which he cast at me, I read not 
the indifference with which he explained his coldness, but 
genuine, concentrated grief. 

“ God sees all, and knows all : and may His holy will be 
done in all things ! ’ he said, drew himself up to his full height, 
and sighed heavily. “Yes, Nikolinka,” he went on, per- 
ceiving the expression of unfeigned sympathy with which I 
regarded him, “it is my fate to be unhappy from my verv 
infancy to my coffin. I have always been repaid with evil 
for the good which I have done to people ; and my reward is 
not here, but yonder,” he said, pointing toward heaven. “If 
you only knew my histoiy, and all that I have undergone in 
this life ! I have been a shoemaker, I have been a soldier, 
I have been a deserter., I have been a workman, 1 have been 
a teacher, and now I am nothing ; and, like the Son of God, 
I have nowhere to lay my head,” he concluded, and, closing 
his eyes, he fell into a chair. 


BOYHOOD. 


141 


Perceiving that Karl Ivanitch was in that sensitive state of 
mind in which he uttered Ids dearest thoughts for Ids own sat- 
isfaction, without heeding the hearer, 1 seated myself on the 
bed in silence, and without removing my eyes from his kind 
face. 

“ You are not a child, you can understand. I will tell you 
my storv, and all that I have endured in this life. Some 
day you will recall the old friend, who loved you very much, 
children.” 

Karl Ivanitch leaned his elbow on the table which stood • 
beside him, took a pinch of snuff, and, rolling his eyes 
heavenward, began Ids tale in that peculiar, measured, 
throat voice, in which he usually dictated to us. 

tvas unhapjjy even before I was borri^”^ he said with 
great feeling. 

As Karl Ivanitch related his history to me more than once 
afterwards, in exactly the same terms, and always with the 
same identical intonations, I hope to be able to reproduce it 
almost word for word, the faults of language, of course, 
excepted, of which the reader can form his own judgment 
from the first sentence. Whether it really was his history, 
or a production of the imagination, which had had its birth 
during his loneh' life in our house, or whether he only colored 
the real events of his life with fantastic facts, I have not 
been able to decide to this day. On the one hand, he related 
his story with too much of that lively feeling and method- 
ical sequence which constitute the chief proofs of veracity, 
to permit one to doubt it : on the other hand, there was too 
much poetic beauty about his history, so that this very 
beauty evoked doubts. 

“In my veins flows the noble blood of fhe counts of Som- 
merblatt. I was born six weeks after the mariiage. My 
mother’s husband (I called him papa) was a farmer under 
Count Sommerblatt. He could never forget my mother’s 
shame, and did not love me. I had a little brother Johann 
and two sisters ; but I was a stranger in the midst of my 
own family. AVhen Johann committed any follies, papa used 
to say, ‘ I never have a moment’s peace with that child 
Karl!’ and then I was scolded and punished. When my 
sisters got angry with each other, papa said, ‘ Karl will 
never be an obedient bo}" I ’ and I was scolded and punished. 

1 “ rngJikk verfolgte laich schon ini Schoosse meiner Matter." The llussiau 
id also i..conect. 


142 


BOYHOOD. 


“ My good mamma alone loved me and petted me. She 
often said to me, ‘ Karl, come here, to my room,’ and 
then she kissed me on the sly. ‘ Poor, poor Karl ! ’ she said, 

‘ no one loves you, but I would not change you for any one. 
One thing your mamma begs of you,’ she said to me: 

‘ study well, and always be an honorable man, and God will 
not desert you.’ And I tried. When I was fourteen, and 
could go to communion, mamma said to papa, ‘ Karl is a 
big boy now, Gustav : what shall we do with him ? ’ And 
papa said, ‘I don’t know.’ Then mamma said, ‘Let us 
send him to Herr Schultz in the town, and let him be a 
shoemaker.’ And papa said, ‘Yeiy good.’ Six years and 
seven months I lived in the town, with the master shoemaker, 
and the master loved me. He said, ‘ Karl is a good work- 
man, and he shall soon be my partner.’ But man pro[)oses, 
and God disposes. In 1796 a conscription was appointed, 
and all who could serve, from eighteen to twent 3 ^-one ^^ears 
of age, must assemble in the town. 

“ Papa and brother Johann came to town, and we went 
together to draw lots to see who should be and who should 
not be a soldier. Johann drew a bad number : he must 
become a soldier. I drew a good number : 1 was not obliged 
to become a soldier. And papa said, ‘ I had one son, and I 
must part with him.’ 

“ I took his hand, and said, ‘ Wh}^ did j^ou say that, papa? 
Come with me, I will tell you something.’ And papa went. 
Papa went, and we seated ourselves at a little table. ‘ Give 
us a couple of jugs of beer,’ I said, and they were brought. 
We drank them glass for glass, and brother Johann drank 
also. 

“‘Papa,’ I said, ‘ do not say that you had one son, and 
you must part with him. My heart wants to /euj) out when 
[ liear that. Brother Johann shall not serve : I will be a sol- 
dier. No one needs Karl here, and Karl will be a soldier.’ 

‘“You are an honest man, Karl Ivanitch,’ said papa to 
me, and he kissed me. 

“And 1 became a soldier. 


BOYHOOD. 


143 


CHAPTER IX. 

CONTINUATION OF THE PRECEDING. 

“That was a terrible time, Nikolinka,” continued Karl 
Ivanitch. • “Napoleon was alive then. He wanted to con- 
quer Germany, and we defended our fatherland to the last 
drop of blood ! 

“ I was at Ulin, I was at Austerlitz, I was at AYagram.” 

“Did you fight too?” I asked, gazing at him in amaze- 
ment. “ Did you also kill people? ” 

Karl Ivanitch immediately relieved my mind on that score, 

“ Once a French grenadier lingered behind his comrades, 
and fell by the way. I ran up with my gun, and was about 
to transfix him ; but the Frenchman threw away his weapons, 
and begged for mercy, and I let him go. 

“ At Wagram, Napoleon chased us to the islands, and sur- 
rounded us so that there was no safety anywhere. For three 
days we had no provisions, and we stood in the water up to 
our knees. 

“ The miscreant Napoleon would neither take us nor leave 
us. 

“ On the fourth day, thank God, we were taken prisoners, 
and led off to the fortress. I had on blue trousers, a uniform 
of good cloth, fifteen thalers in money, and a silver watch, 
the gift of my papa. A French soldier took all from me. 
Fortunately, I had three ducats left, which mamma had 
sewed into my doublet. Nobody found them. 

“I did not wish to remain long in the fortress, and de- 
cided to run away. Once on a great festival day, 1 told the 
sei-geant who looked after us, ‘ Herr sergeant, this is a 
solemn festival, and I want to observe it. Please fetch two 
bottles of Madeira, and we will drink them together.’ And 
the sergeant said, ‘ Very good.’ When the sergeant brought 
the Madeira, and we had drank it in a wineglass, tuin and 
turn about, I took him by the hand, and said, ‘ Herr ser- 


144 


BOYHOOD. 


geant, do yon happen to have a father and mother?’ lie 
said, ‘Tes, Herr Mauer.’ — ‘ My father and mother,’ said 1, 
‘ have not seen me for eight years, and do not know whether 
I am alive or whether my bones are lying in the damp earth. 

0 Herr sergeant! I have two ducats, which were in my 
doublet : take them, and let me go. Be my benefactor, and 
my mamma will pray to Almighty God for yon all her life.’ 

The sergeant drank a glass of Madeira, and said, ‘ Herr 
Maner, I love and pity yon extremely ; but yon are a prisoner, 
and I am a soldier.’ I pressed his hand, and said, ‘ Herr 
sergeant 1 ’ 

“And the sergeant said, ‘Yon are a poor man, and I will 
not take yonr money ; bnt I will help yon. When I go to 
bed, buy a bucket of brandy for the soldiers, and they will 
sleep. 1 will not watch yon.’ 

“ He was a good man. I bought the bncket of brandy ; and 
when the soldiers were drunk, 1 pnt on my boots and my old 
cloak, and went ont of the door. 1 went to the wall, with 
the intention of jumping over ; bnt there was water there, and 

1 would not spoil my last remaining clothes. I went to The 
gate. 

“ The sentry was marching np and down with his gnn,^ and 
he looked at me. ‘ Qni vive?’ he said for the first time, 
and I made no answer. ‘ Qni vive ? ’ said he the second 
time, and 1 made no answer. ‘Qni vive? ’ he said for the 
third time, and I ran away. I sprang into the water., 
climbed out on the other side., and took my departure. 

“All night 1 ran along the road; bnt when it began to 
dawn, I was afraid that they would recognize me, and 1 hid 
in the tall rye. Then I knelt, folded my hands, and thanked 
onr heavenly Father for saving me, and fell asleep with a 
tranquil mind. 

woke in the evening, and proceeded faither. All at 
once, a great German wagon with two black horses over- 
took me. In the wagon sat a handsomely dressed man, 
who was smoking a pipe, and looking at me. I walked 
slowly, in order that the wagon might pass me ; but when I 
went slowly, the wagon went more slowly still, and the man 
stared at me. I sat down by the roadside ; the man stopped 
his liorses, and looked at me. '• Young man,’ said he, 
‘whither are you going so late?’ I said, ‘I am going 

1 Kill ! Ivanitcli’s lansriiiige is an extraordinary mixture of bad Russian and Ger- 
man, wbich it is impossible to reproduce without much tiresome repetition. — Tu. 


BOYHOOD. 


145 


to Frankfort.’ — ‘ Get into m3’ wagon ; there’s room, and 
I will take you there. Why have you nothing with you? 
why is your beard unshaved? and why are your clothes 
muddy?’ he said to me, when I had seated myself by him. 
‘ I am a poor man,’ I said. ‘ I want to hire out somewhere 
as a workman ; and my clothes are mudd}^ because I fell 
down in the road.’ — ‘You are telling an untruth, young 
man,’ said he : ‘ the road is diy now.’ 

“And I remained silent. 

“‘Tell me the whole truth,’ said the good man to me. 
‘Who are you, and whence come 3"Ou? Your face pleases 
me, and if you are an honest man I will help you.’ 

“And I told him all. He said, ‘ Veiy good, 3"Oung man. 
Come to my rope-factory. I will give you work, clothes, and 
money, and 3^011 shall live with me.’ 

“ And I said, ‘ Veiy well.’ 

“We went to the rope-fa ctor3’, and the good man said to his 
wife, ‘ Here is a voung man wlio has fought for his countiy, 
and esca})ed from captivity ; he has neither home, clothes, 
nor bread. He will live with me. Give him some clean 
linen, and feed him.’ 

“I lived at the rope-factoiy for a 3’ear and a half, and 
m3’ master became so fond of me that he would not let me 
go. 1 was a handsome man then ; I was 3’oung, tall, with 
blue e3^es, and a Roman nose ; and Madame L. (1 cannot 
tell her name) , the wife of m3' master, w’as a 3’oung and 
pretty woman, and she fell in love with me. 

“When she saw me, she said, ‘Herr Mauer, what does 
3'our mamma call you ? ’ 1 said, ‘ Karlcheii.’ 

“ And she said, ‘ Karlchen, sit here beside me.’ 

“ I seated myself beside her, and she said, ‘ Karlchen, kiss 
me ! ’ 

“ I kissed her, and she said, ‘ Karlchen, I love 3'ou so, that 
1 cannot endure it any longer,’ and she trembled all over.’’ 

Here Karl Jvanitch made a prolonged i)ause; and rolling 
up his kind blue eyes, he rocked his head, and began to 
smile, as people do vvdien under the intluence of pleasant 
recollections. 

‘•Yes,’’ he began again, settling himself in his arm-chair, 
and folding his dressing-gown al)out liim, “ I have been 
through a great deal, both of good and bad, in my life ; but 
He is my witness,” he said, pointing to a ligure of the Sav- 
iour, worked on canvas, which hung over his be.l, “nobody 


146 


BOYHOOD. 


can say that Karl Ivaiiitch has been a dishonorable man ! I 
would not repay the kindness which Herr L. had shown me, 
by black ingratitude ; and I resolved to run away fi-om him. 
Jn the evening, when all had gone to bed, 1 wrote a letter to 
my master, laid it on the table in my room, took mj' clothes 
and three thalers in money, and stepped quietly out into the 
street. No oue saw me, and I walked aloug the road. 


BOYHOOD. 


147 


CHAPTER X. 

CONTINUATION. 

“I HAD not seen my mamma for nine 3^ears ; and I did 
not know whether she was alive, or whether Imr bones were 
already lying in the dami) earth. I returned to my father- 
land. When I reached the town, I inquired where Gustav 
Mauer lived, who had been farmer to Count Sommerblatt ; 
and they told me, ‘ Count Sommerblatt is dead ; and Gus- 
tav Mauer lives in the high street, and keeps a liquor-shop.’ 
I put on my new vest, a handsome coat (a gift of the 
manufacturer), brushed my hair well, and went to my papa’s 
liqnor-shop. sister Mariechen was sitting in the shop, 

and inquired what 1 wanted. I said, ‘ May 1 drink a glass 
of liquor?’ and she said, ‘ leather, a 3^onng man is asking 
for a glass of liquor.’ And papa said, 'Give the young 
man a glass of liquor.’ I sat down at the table, drank 
my glass of liquor, smoked my pipe, and looked at papa, 
IMariechen, and Johann, who had also entered the shop. 
During the conversation, papa said to me, ‘ You probably 
know, 3’oung man, where our army stands now?’ I said, 
‘ I have come from the army m3’self, and it is near Vienna.’ 
— ‘ Our son,’ said papa, ' was a soldier, and it is nine 3"ears 
since he has written to us, and we do not know whether 
he is alive or dead. M3" wife is alwa3’s weeping for him.’ 
I smoked awa3" at m3^ pipe, and said, ‘ What was 3'our son’s 
name, and where did he serve? Perhaps I know him.’ — 
‘ lie was called Karl Mauer, and he served in the Austrian 
J^tVV/ers,’ said papa. ‘ lie was a tall, handsome man, like 
you,’ said sister Mariechen. 

“‘I know your Karl,’ said I. ‘Amalia!’ cried my 
father suddenly, ‘ come here ! here is a young man who 
knows our Karl.’ And my dear mamma comes through the 
rear door. I immediately recognize her. ‘ You Jcnoiv onr 
Karl?* she said^ looked at me, turned very pale., and began 


148 


BornooD. 


to tremble! ‘Yes, I have seen him,’ said T, and did not 
dare to lift my eyes to her ; my heart wanted to leap. ‘ My 
Karl is alive ! ’ said mamma, ‘ thank God ! Where is he, 
my dear Karl? I’ should die in peace if I could see him once 
more, my beloved son; but it is not God’s will,’ and she 
began to cry. / conld not bear it. ‘Mamma,’ said 1, ‘I 
am your Karl,’ and she fell into my arms.’' 

Karl Ivanitch closed his eyes, and his lips trembled. 

“ ‘ Mother,’ said I, ‘ 1 am your son, I am your Karl,’ and 
she fell into my arms,” he repeated, becoming somewhat 
calmer, as he wiped away the big tears which trickled down 
his cheeks. 

“ But it was not God’s pleasure that I should end my days 
in my own country. I was destined to ill luck. Misfortune 
followed me everywhere. I lived in my native land only 
three months. One Sunday I was in a coffee-house buying a 
jug of beer, smoking my pipe, and talking politics with my 
acquaintances, and about the Emperor Ph-anz, about Napo- 
leon and the war, and each one was expressing his opinion. 
Near us sat a strange gentleman, in a gray overcoat, who 
drank his coffee, smoked his pipe, and said nothing to us. 
When the night watchman cried ten o’clock, I took my hat, 
])aid my reckoning, and went home. About midnight some 
one knocked at the door. I woke up and said, ‘ Who’s 
there?’ — ‘Open!’ I said, ‘Tell me who you are, and I 
will open.’ — ‘Open in the name of the law!’ came the 
answer from outside the door, and I opened. Two soldiers 
with guns stood at the door ; and the strange man in the 
gray overcoat, who had been sitting near us in the coffee- 
house, entered the room. He was a spy. ‘ Come with me,’ 
said the spy. ‘ Very good,’ said I. 1 put on my boots and 
trousers, buckled my suspenders, and walked about the room. 
I was raging at heart. I said, ‘He is a villain.’ When I 
reached the wall where my sword hung, I suddenly seized it, 
and said, ‘ You are a spy: defend yourself!’ I gave him 
a cut on the right, a cut on the left, and one on the head. 
The spy fell! 1 seized my portmanteau and my money, and 
leaped out of the window. 1 got to Pirns ; there I made the 
acquaintance of General Sazin. He took a fancy to me, got 
a passpoi't from the ambassador, and took me to Russia with 
him to teach his children. When General Sazin died, your 
mamma called me to her. ‘ Karl Ivanitch,’ she said, ‘ I 
give my children into your charge : love them, and I will 


BOYHOOD. 


149 


never discharge you ; I will make your old age comfortable.’ 
Now she is dead, and all is forgotten. After twenty years of 
service I must now go out into the street, in my old age, to 
seek a crust of dry bread. God aees it and knoivs it^ and 
Jlis hohj toill be done: only I am sorry for you., children! ” 
said Karl Ivanitch in conclusion, drawing me to him by the 
hand, and kissing me on the head. 


150 


BOYHOOD. 


CHAPTER XI. 

ONE. 

By the conclusion of the year of mourning, grandmamma 
had somewhat recovered from the grief which had pros- 
trated her, and began to receive guests now and then, espe- 
cially children, boys and girls of our own age. 

On Liubotchka’s birthday, the 13th of December, Prin 
cess Kornakova and her daughters, Madame \hilakhina and 
Sonitchka, llinka Grap, and the tw’O younger Ivin brothers, 
arrived before dinner. 

The sounds of conversation, laughter, and running about 
ascended to us from below, where all this com})any was as- 
sembled ; but we could not join them until our morniug lessons 
were finished. On the calendar which was suspended in the 
schoolroom was inscribed: ‘‘Monday, from 2 to 3, teacher 
of history and geograpliy ; ” and it was that master of history 
whom we were obliged to wait for, listen to, and get rid of, 
before we should be free. It was twenty minutes past two, 
but nothing had yet been heard of the teacher of history ; he 
was not even to be seen in the street which he must traverse, 
and which I was inspecting with a strong desire of never 
beholding him. 

“ Lebedeff does not appear to be coming to-day,” said 
Volodya, tearing himself for a moment from Smaragdoff’s 
book, in which he was preparing his lesson. 

“ God grant, God grant he may not ! but I know' nothing. 
But he seems to be coming yonder,” I added in a sorrowful 
voice. 

Volodya rose, and came to the window. 

“No, that is not he; it is some (gentleman,'’' said he. 
“ Let’s wait until half-past tw'o,” he added, stretching him- 
self and scratching his head, as he was in the habit of doing 
in moments of respite from work ; “if he has not come by 
half-past two, then we can tell !St. Jerome to take away the 
note-books.” 


BOYHOOD. 


151 


“I don’t see what he wants to co-o-o-me for,” I said, 
stretching also, and shaking Kaidanolf’s book, which I held 
in both hands, above 1113 ' head. 

For lack of something to do, I opened the book at the 
place where our lesson was appointed, and began to read. 
The lesson was long and dilRcult. I knew nothing about it, 
and I perceived that I should not succeed in remembering 
an}' thing about it, the more so as I was in that state of 
nervous excitement in which one’s thoughts refuse to con- 
centrate themselves on any subject whatever. 

After the last history lesson, which alwa 3 's seemed to me 
the very stupidest, on the most wearisome of all subjects, 
Lebedeff had complained to 8 t. Jerome about me ; and two 
marks wei'e placed against me in the books, which was con- 
sidered very bad. 8 t. Jerome told me then, that, if I got 
less than three at the next lesson, 1 should be severely 
punished. Now this next lesson was imminent, and 1 con- 
fess that 1 felt very much of a coward. 

1 was so carried away with the perusal of the lesson which 
I did not know, that the sound of galoshes being removed in 
the ante-room startled me all at once. I had hardly had time 
to cast a glance in that direction, when the pock-marked face 
which was so antipathetic to me, and the awkward, far too 
well known figure of the teacher, in its blue coat closely fas- 
tened with learned buttons, made their appearance in the 
doorwa}'. 

The teacher slowly dei)Osited his hat on the window, his 
note-books on the table, pulled aside the tails* of his swallow- 
tailed coat (as though it were very important), and seated 
himself, panting, in his place. 

‘‘ Now, gentlemen,” said he, rubbing one perspiring hand 
over the other: “let us first review what was said at the 
last lesson, and then I will endeavor to acquaint 3 ^ou with 
succeeding events of the Middle Ages.” 

That meant : Sa}' 3 ^ 0111 - lesson. 

At the moment when Volodya was answering him with 
the freedom and confidence peculiar to a pei-son who is 
thoroughly acquainted with his subject, I went out on the 
stairs, without any object whatever; and, since it was im- 
jiossible for me to go dowm, it was veiy natural that I should 
find myself, quite unexpectedly to myself, on the landing. 
But just as I was about to install myself in my customary 
post of observation, behind a door, Minii, wdio had always 


152 


BOYHOOD. 


been the cause of my misfortunes, suddenly ran against me. 
“You here?” said she, looking threateningly at me, then 
at the door of the maids’ room, and then at me again. 

I felt thoroughly guilty, both because I was not in the 
schoolroom, and because I was in a place where I had no 
business to be. So I lield my tongue, and, lianging my head, 
exhibited in my person the most touching expression of 
penitence. “Well, who ever saw the like!” said Mimi. 
“What have you been doing here?” I remained silent. 
“No, things shall not be left in this state,” she repeated, 
rapping her knuckles against the stair-railings : “I shall tell 
the Countess all about it.” 

It was already five minutes to three, when I returned to 
the schoolroom. The teacher was explaining the following 
lesson to Volodya, as though he had remarked neither my 
absence nor my presence. When he had finished his expo- 
sition, he began to put his note-books together, and Volodya 
went into the other room to fetch the lesson-ticket ; and the 
cheering thought occurred to me, that all was over, and that 
I had been forgotten. 

But all at once the teacher turned to me with a malicious 
half smile. 

“ I hope you have learned your lesson, sir,” he said, rub- 
bing his hands. 

“ 1 have learned it, sir,” I answered. 

“Try to tell me something about St. Louis’s crusade,” 
said he, shifting about in his chair, and gazing thoughtfully 
at his feet. “ Yon may tell me first the causes which induced 
the French King to take the cross,” said he, raising his 
brows, and pointing his finger at the ink-bottle. “ Then you 
may explain to me the general and characteristic traits of 
that expedition,” he added, making a movement with his 
wrist, as though endeavoring to catch something. “And, 
finally, the influence of this crusade upon European sove- 
reignty in general,” said he, striking the left side of the table 
with his note-books. “And upon the French monarchy in 
particular,” he concluded, striking the right side of the table, 
and inclining his head to the right. 

1 gulped down my spittle a few times, coughed, bent my 
head on one side, and remained silent. Then seizing a pen, 
which lay upon the table, I began to pluck it to pieces, still 
maintaining my silence. 

“ Permit me to take that pen,” said the teacher, extending 
his hand ; “ it is good for something. Now, sir ! ” 


BOYHOOD. 153 

“Lon — King — St. Louis — was — was — was — a good 
and wise emperor.” 

“ What, sir? ” 

“An emperor. He conceived the idea of going to Jeru- 
salem, and transferred the reins of government to his mother.” 

“ What was her name? ” 

“B — B — lanka.” 

“ What, sir? Bn lanka? ” ^ 

I laughed rather awkwardly, and with constraint. 

“Well, sir, do you know any thing else?” he said sar- 
castically. 

There was nothing for me to lose, so I coughed, and began 
to utter whatever lies came into my head. The teacher, who 
sat silently flicking the dust from the table, with the quill 
pen which he had taken away from me, gazed straight past 
my ear, and repeated, “ Good, very good, sir.” I was con- 
scious that I knew nothing, that 1 was not expressing myself 
at all as I should ; and it pained me frightfully to see that 
the teacher did not stop me, or correct me. 

“ Why did he conceive the idea of going to Jerusalem?” 
said he, repeating my words. 

“ Because — for the reason — for the purpose, because ” — 
I stopped short, uttered not another word, and felt that if 
that villanous teacher were to hold his tongue for a whole 
year, and gaze inquiringly at me, I should not be in a con- 
dition to emit another sound. The teacher stared at me for 
three minutes ; then an expression of deep sorrow appeared 
on his face, and he said to Volodya, who had just entered 
the room, in a feeling tone : 

“ Please hand me the record-book.” 

Volodya gave him the book, and carefully laid the ticket 
beside it. 

The teacher opened the book, and, cautiously dipping his 
pen, he put down five, in his beautiful hand, for Volodya, 
under tlie head of recitations and behavior. Then ho 
stopped his pen over the column in which my delinquencies 
were inscribed, looked at me, flirted off the ink, and pondered. 

All at once his hand made an almost imperceptible move* 
ment, and there appeared a handsomely shaped one and a 
period ; another movement, and in the conduct column stood 
another one and a dot. 

Carefully closing the record-book, the teacher rose and 

^ Name for a cream-colored horee. 


154 


BOYHOOD. 


went to the door, as though he did not perceive my glance, 
in which despair, entreat}', and reproach were expressed. 

“ Mikliail Ilarionovitch,” said 1. 

“No,” said he, understanding at once what I wanted to 
say to him ; “ it’s impossible to teach in that way. 1 won’t 
receive money for nothing.” 

The teacher put on his galoshes and his camelot cloak, and 
knotted his scarf with great care. As if any one could care 
for any thing after what had ha})pened to me ! A movement 
of the pen for him, but the greatest misfortune for me. 

“ Is the lesson ended?” inquired St. Jerome, entering the 
room. 

“Yes.” 

“ Was your teacher satisfied with you? ” 

“Yes,” said Volodya. 

“ How many did you get?” 

“ Five.” 

“And Nicholas? ” 

I said nothing. 

“ Four, apparently,” said Volodya. 

He knew that it was necessary to save me, if only for 
that day. If I were to be punished, let it not be to-day, 
when there were guests in the house. 

“ Let us see, gentlemen [St. Jerome had a way of saying 
“let us see” (voyons) at every other word], make your toi- 
lets, and we will go down-stairs.” 


BOYBOOD. 


155 


CHAPTER XII. 

THE LITTLE KEY. 

We had hardh’ got down-stairs and exchanged salutations 
with all the guests, when w^e were summoned to the table. 
Papa was very gay (he was winning money just then), pre- 
sented Liubotchka with a handsome silver service, and, after 
dinner, remembered that he had also a bonbon box in his 
wing for the birthday girl. 

There’s no use in sending a man; better go yourself, 
Koko,” he said to me. “The keys are lying on tlie large 
table, in the shell, you know. Take them, and with the very 
largest key, open the second drawer on the right. There you 
will find the box and some bonbons in a paper ; and 3^ou are 
to bring them all here.” 

“ And shall I bring you some cigars? ” I asked, knowing 
that he always sent for them after dinner. 

“Bring them, but see that you don’t touch any thing in 
my rooms,” he called after me. 

I found the keys in the place designated, and was about to 
open the drawer, wdien I was stopped by a desire to know 
wdiat a very small key, which hung on the same bunch, opened. 

On the table, amid a thousand varied objects, and near the 
railing, lay an embroidered portfolio, with a padlock ; and I. 
took a fancy to try whether tlie little key would fit it. My 
experiment was crowned with complete success ; the portfolio 
opened, and in it I found a whole heap of papers. A feeling 
of curiosity counselled me with such conviction to find out 
what those papers were, that I did not succeed in hearkening 
to the voice of conscience, and set to woi’k to examine what 
W'as in the portfolio. 

The childish sentiment of unquestioning respect towards 
all my elders, and especially towards pni)a, was so strong 
within me, that my mind involuntarily refused to diavv any 


156 


BOYHOOD. 


conclusions whatever from what I saw. I felt that papa 
must live in a totally different sphere, which was very beau- 
tiful, unattainable, and incomprehensible to me, and that to 
attempt to penetrate the secrets of his life, would be some- 
thing in the nature of sacrilege on my part. 

Therefore the discoveiy which I had almost unconsciously 
made in papa’s portfolio, left in me no clear conception, 
except a dim knowledge that I had behaved badly. I was 
ashamed and uncomfortable. 

Under the influence of this feeling, I desired to close the 
portfolio as speedily as possible, but I was evidently fated to 
endure every possible kind of misfortune upon that memor- 
able day. Placing the key in the keyhole of the padlock, I 
turned it the other way ; supposing that the lock was closed, 
I pulled out the key, and — oh, horror! the head of the key 
only remained in my hand. In vain did I endeavor to unite it 
wdth the half in the lock, and release it by means of some 
magic. I was forced at length to accustom myself to the 
frightful thought, that I had committed a fresh crime, which 
must be discovered this very day, when papa returned to his 
study. 

Miini’s complaint, the one mark, and that little key ! 
Nothing worse could have happened. Grandmamma on ac- 
count of Mimi’s complaint, 8t. Jerome about the one mark, 
papa, about that ke}' ; and all these woukl overwhelm me, and 
not later than that very evening. 

“What will become of me? Oh, wdiat have I done? ” I 
said aloud, as I paced the soft carpet of the study. “Eh,” 
I said to myself, as I got the bonbons and cigars, “ tc/mi 
ivill he. icill be.’' and I ran into the house. 

This fatalistic adage, which I had heard from Nikolai in 
my cliildhood, produced a beneficial and temporarily sooth- 
ing effect upon me at all difficult crises in my life. When 
I entered the hall, I was in a somewhat excited and un- 
natural but extremely merry mood. 


BOYHOOD. 


157 


» 


CHAPTER XIII. 

THE TRAITRESS. 

After dinner, games began, and I took the most lively 
interest in them. While playing at cat and mouse^ I awk- 
wardl}' ran against the Kornakoff’s governess., who was play- 
ing with us, stepped on her dress unintentionally, and tore it. 
Perceiving that it afforded all the girls, and Sonitchka in 
particular, great satisfaction to see the governess retire with 
a perturbed countenance, to the maids’ room, to mend her 
dress, I resolved to procure them that pleasure once more. 
Ill consequence of this amiable intention, the governess had 
no sooner returned to the room, than I began to gallop round 
her, and I kept up this evolution until I found a favorable 
opportunity to catch my heel once more in her skirt, and tear 
it. Sonitchka and the Princesses could hardly restrain their 
laughter, which flattered my vanity very agreeably ; but St. 
Jerome, who must have been observing my pranks, came up 
to me, and said with a frown (whicli I could not endure) that 
I evidently was not merry in a good way, and that if I were 
not more discreet he would make me repent of it, even 
though it was a festive day. 

But I was in the state of excitement of a man who has 
gambled away more than he has in his pocket, and who fears 
to reckon up his accounts, and continues to bet on desperate 
cards without any hope of redeeming himself, and only for 
the purpose of not giving himself time to think. I smiled 
impudently, and walked away from him. 

After the game of “ cat and mouse,” some one started a 
game which we called Long Nose. The [flay consisted in 
placing two rows of chairs opposite each other ; then the 
ladies and gentlemen divided into two parties, each choosing 
another in turn. 

The youngest Princess chose the smallest Ivin every time ; 

1 Fuse in the coruer. 


158 


BOYHOOD. 


Katenka chose either Volodya or Ilinka ; Sonltchka took Se- 
rozha every time, and was not at all abashed, to my ex- 
treme amazement, when Serozha went and seated himseli 
directly opposite her. She laughed with her pretty, ringing 
laugh, and made him a sign with her head, to show that 
she understood. I comprehended, to the great injury of my 
vanity, that I was superfluous, left out; that they must say 
of me every time, “ Who remains yet? Yes, Nikuliuka : 
ivelU we'll take him." 

When, therefore, it came my turn to step forward, I w^ent 
boldly up either to my sister or to one of the ugly Prin- 
cesses, and, unfortunatel}^, never made a mistake. And So- 
nitchka seemed so absorbed in Serozha Ivin, that I did not 
exist for her. I do not know on what grounds I mentally 
called her a traitress, since she had never given me a prom- 
ise to choose me, and not Serozha ; but 1 was firmly con- 
vinced that she had behaved in the most revolting manner. 

After the game, I noticed that the traitress, whom I de- 
spised, but from whom, nevertheless, I could not take my 
eyes, had retired into a corner with Serozha and Katenka, 
where they w’ere discussing something in a mysterious man- 
ner. Creeping up behind the piano, in order to discover 
their secret, 1 saw this : Katenka was holding a cambric 
handkerchief by two of its corners, thus forming a screen 
between Sonitchka’s head and Serozha’s. “ No, you have 
lost; now you shall pay!” said Serozha. Sonitchka stood 
before him, with her arms hanging beside her, as if guilty, 
and said, blushing, “No, I have not lost; have 1, Mile. 
Catherine?” — “I love the truth,” replied Katenka: “you 
have lost 3'our bet, my dear.” 

Katenka had hardly uttered these words, when Serozha 
bent over, and kissed Sonitchka. He kissed her full upon 
her rosy lips. And Sonitchka laughed, as though that were 
nothing, as though it were very amusing. Horrible ! ! ! Oh 
the sly traitress! 


BOYHOOD. 


150 


CHAPTER XI Y. 

THE ECLIPSE. 

I SUDDENLY felt a contempt for the entire female sex in 
general, and for Sonitchka in particular ; I began to assure 
myself, that there was nothing jolly about these games, 
that they were only fit for little riirU ; and I f«*lt very much 
inclined to create an uproar, to do some manly deed, wliich 
would astonish them all. An occasion was not long in pre- 
senting itself. 

St. Jerome, after talking of something with Mimi, left the 
room ; at first, his footsteps were audible on the stairs, and 
then above us, in the direction of the schoolroom. The 
thought occurred to me, that Mimi had told him where she had 
seen me during lesson hours, and that he had gone to inspect 
the journal. At that time, I did not attribute to St. Jerome 
any other object in life than a desire to punish me. I had 
read somewhere, that childi’en from twelve to fourteen years 
of age, that is to say, those who are in the transition stage of 
boyhood, are particularly inclined to arson and murder. 
In recalling my boyhood, and especially the frame of mind 
in which 1 was on that unlucky da 3 % 1 very clearly appreciate 
the importance of the most frightful crime, committed with- 
out object or intent to injure, but from curiosity, to meet an 
unconscious need for activity. There are moments when the 
future presents itself to a man in such sombre colors, that he 
dreads to fix his mental gaze upon it, entirely represses the 
action of his mind, and endeavors to convince himself that 
the future will not be, and that the past has not been. At 
such moments, when thought does not sit in judgment be- 
fore every decision of the will, and the fleshly instincts remain 
the sole spring of life, I can understand how a child is espe- 
cially inclined, by reason of his inexperience, to set and light 
a fire under the very house in which his brothers, his father 
and his mother, whom he tenderly loves, are slee[)ing, with- 


160 


BOYHOOD. 


out the slightest hesitation or fear, and with a smile of cnri- 
osit}'. Under the influence of this temporary absence of 
reflection, approaching aberration of mind, a peasant lad 
of seventeen, contemplating the freshly sharpened edge of an 
axe, beside the bench on which sleeps his aged father, face 
downward, suddenly flourishes the axe, and gazes with stu- 
pid curiosity at the blood, as it drips from the severed neck 
on the bench ; under the influence of the same absence of re- 
flection, and instinctive curiosity, a man experiences a certain 
enjoyment in pausing upon the brink of a precipice, and 
thinking, “What if I should throw myself down there?” 
Or, placing a loaded pistol to his forehead, he thinks, 
“What if I pull the trigger?” Or he gazes upon some 
person for whom society universally cherislies a peculiar re- 
spect, and thinks, “ What if 1 were to go up to him, take 
him by the nose, and say, ‘ Come, my dear fellow, shall we 
go?’ ” 

Under the influence of this internal excitement, and absence 
of reflection, when St. Jerome came down-stairs, and told me 
that I had no right to be there that evening, because I had 
behaved badly and studied badly, and that I was to go up- 
stairs at once, I stuck out my tongue at him, and said that 
I would not leave that spot. 

For a moment, St. Jerome could not utter a word for sur- 
prise and anger. 

“ Very well,” he said, following, me : “I have promised to 
punish you several times already, and your grandmamma has 
wanted to beg 3 ’ou olf ; but now I see that nothing but the 
rod will make you mind, and you have fully deserved it 
to-day.” 

He said this so loudly that every one heard his words. The 
blood retreated to my heart wdth unusual force. I felt that 
it was beating violently, that the color fled from my face, 
and tliat my lips trembled quite involuntarily. I must have 
looked terrible at that moment, for St. Jerome, avoiding 
my glance, walked quickly up to me, and seized me by the 
hand; but I no sooner felt the touch of his hand, than, 
beside myself with rage, I tore my hand away, and struck 
him w'ith all my childish strength. 

“ What is the matter with you? ” said Volodya, who had 
seen my act with horror and amazement, as he api)roached 
me. 

“Let me alone!” I shrieked at him through my tears: 


BOYHOOD. 


161 


“ not one of you loves me, nor understands how unhappy I 
am. You are all hateful, disgusting,” 1 added, turning to 
the wliole company in a sort of fury. 

But tliis time St. Jerome came up to me with a pale, deter- 
mined face, and before 1 had time to prepare for defence, he 
grasped both my hands as in a vise, with a powerful move- 
ment, and dragged me awa}'. My head was whirling with 
excitement. 1 only rememl)er that 1 fought desperately with 
head and knees as long as 1 had any strength lefL 1 remem- 
ber tliat my nose came in contact several times with some 
one’s hips, and that some one’s coat fell into my mouth, that 
I was conscious of the presence of some one’s feet all around 
me, and of the smell of dust, and of the violet with which 
St. Jerome perfumed himself. 

Five minutes later, the garret door closed behind me. 

“ Basil ! ” said he in a revolting, triumphant voice : ‘‘ bring 
the rods.” 


162 


BOYHOOD. 


CHAPTER XV. 

FANCIES. 

Could T at that time suppose that I should remain alive 
after all the misfortunes which came upon me, and that the 
day would come when I should recall them with composure? 

When I remembered what I had done, I could not imagine 
what would become of me, but 1 dimly comprehended that I 
was irretrievably ruined. 

At first, absolute silence reigned below and around me, or 
so it seemed to me at least, because of my excessively 
powerful inward agitation ; but gradually I began to distin- 
guish the different sounds. Vasili came down-stairs, and, 
flinging something which resembled a broom on the window- 
ledge, lay down on the chest with a yawn. Below, August 
Antonitch’s huge voice was audible (he must have been 
speaking of me), then childish voices, then laughter and 
running ; and then a few minutes later every thing in the 
house had again relapsed into its former movement, as 
though no one knew or thought of me sitting in the dark 
garret. 

1 did not cry, but something as heavy as a stone lay upon 
my heart. Thoughts and visions passed with redoubled 
swiftness before my disturbed imagination ; but the memory 
of the misfortune which had overtaken me incessantly broke 
their wondrous chain, and 1 again traversed an endless lab}^- 
rinth of uncertainty as to the fate which awaited me, of 
terror and despair. 

Then it occurs to me, that there must exist some cause for 
the general dislike and even hatred of me. (At that time I 
was firml}' convinced that everybody, beginning with grand- 
mamma and down to Philip the coachman, hated me, and 
found pleasure in my sufferings.) 

It must be that I am not the son of m}’ father and mother, 
not Volodya’s brother, but an unhappy orphan, a foundling, 


BOYHOOD. 


163 


adopted out of charity, I say to myself ; and this absurd idea 
not only affords me a certain melancholy comfort, but even 
appears extremely probable. It pleases me to think that I 
am unhappy not because I am myself to blame, but because 
such has been my fate since my very birth, and that my lot is 
similar to that of the unfortunate Karl Ivanitch. 

Hut why conceal this secret any longer, when I have 
myself succeeded in penetrating it?” I say to myself. 
‘‘ To-morrow 1 will go to papa, and say to him, ‘ Papa, in vain 
do you conceal from me the secret of my birth : 1 know it,’ 
He will say, ‘ lYhat is to be done, my friend? Sooner or 
later you would have learned it. You are not my son ; but I 
have adopted you, and if you will prove worthy of my love, 
1 will never desert 3 'ou.’ And I shall say to him, ‘Papa, 
although I have no right to call you by that name, I now 
utter it for the last time. 1 have always loved you, and I 
shall always love you, and I shall never forget that you are 
my benefactor ; but 1 can no longer remain in 3 'our house. 
No one here loves me, and St. Jerome has sworn my ruin. 
Either he or I must leave your house, because 1 cannot 
answer for myself. 1 hate that man to such a degree that I 
am prepared for any thing. 1 would kill him as readiK as I 
say: Papa, I will kill him.’ Papa will begin to beseech me; 
but 1 shall wave my hand, and say, ‘No, my tViend, my bene- 
factor, we cannot live together; but release me.’ And then 
I will embrace him, and say in French, ‘ O my father! O my 
benefactor I give me thy blessing for the last time, and may 
God’s will be done.’ ” And as 1 sit on the chest in the dark 
storeroom, I weep and cry at the thought. But all at once 
1 remember the shameful punishment wdiich is awaiting me ; 
reality presents itself to me in its true light, and my fancies 
momentarily take flight. 

Then 1 fancy my>elf already" at liberty, outside our house. 
I enter the hussars, and go to the war. Enemies bear 
down upon me from all sides ; I wave my sword, and kill one ; 
a second wave, I slay another, and a third. Finally, ex- 
hausted by wounds and fatigue, I fall to the earth, and shout 
“ Victory I ” The general approaches, and asks, “ Where is 
he, our savior? ” They, point me out to him ; he flings him- 
self on my neck, and shouts, with tears of joy, “ Victory ! ” 
I recover, and with an arm bandaged in a black handker- 
chief I promenade the Tversky boulevard. I am a general ! 
But, lo, the Emperor meets me, and inquires, “ Who is this 


164 


BOYHOOD. 


wounded young man? ” He is told that it is the renowned 
hero Nikolai. The Emperor comes up to me, and says, “I 
thank you. I will do any thing you ask of me.” I salute 
respectfully, and leaning on my sword I say, “ I am happy, 
great Emperor, to have been able to shed my blood for my 
falherland, and I wish to die for it ; but if you will be so 
gracious, then permit me to beg one thing of you, — permit 
me to annihilate my enemy, the foreigner, St. Jerome. I 
want to aunilhlate my enemy, St. Jerome.” I halt threaten- 
ingly before vSt. Jerome, and sa}' to him, “ You have caused 
my misfortune. On your knees ! ” But suddenly the thought 
occurs to me, that the real St. Jerome may enter at any 
moment with the rods ; and again I see myself, not a 
general serving his country, but a very pitiful, weeping 
creature. 

The thought of God comes to me, and T ask Him impu- 
dently why He is punishing me. “ 1 never have foi'gotten 
my prayers morning and evening; then why do I suffer?” 
I can assert conclusively that the first step towards the re- 
ligious doubts which troubled me during my boyhood was 
taken then, not because unhappiness excited my murmuring 
and unbelief, but because the thought of the injustice of 
Providence, which entered my mind in that time of spiritual 
disorder and solitude of twenty-four hours duration, began 
speedily to grow and to send forth roots, like a pernicious 
seed which has fallen upon the soft earth after a rain. Then I 
imagined that I should certainly die, and represented vividly 
to mj’self 8t. Jerome’s amazement when he should find 
a lifeless body in the garret, instead of me. Recalling 
Natalya Savischna’s tales of how the soul of a dead person 
does not quit the house for fort}’ days, I penetrate, in 
thought, unseen, all the rooms of grandmamma’s house, and 
listen to Liubotchka’s sincere tears, to grandmamma’s grief, 
and papa’s conversation with August Antonitch. “ He was 
a fine boy,” says papa, with tears in his eyes. “ Yes,” says 
8t. Jerome, “but a great scamp.” — “You should respect 
the dead,” says papa. “ You were the cause of his death ; 
you frightened him ; he could not endure the humiliation 
which you were preparing for him. Away from here, you 
villain ! ” 

And St. Jerome falls on his knees, and weeps, and sues 
for pardon. At the end of the forty days, my soul flies to 
heaven ; there I behold something wonderfully beautiful, 


BOYHOOD. 


165 


white, transparent, and long, and I feel that it is my mother. 
This white something surrounds me, caresses me ; but I feel 
an uneasiness, as though I did not know her. “If it really 
is you,” 1 say, “then show yourself to me more distinctly, 
that 1 ma}’ embrace you.” And her voice answers me, “We 
are all so, here. I cannot embrace you any better. Do 
you not think it well thus? ” — “ Yes, 1 think it is very well ; 
but you cannot tickle me, and I cannot kiss your hands.” 
— “ That is not necessary ; it is so very beautiful here,” she 
says, and I feel that it really is very beautiful, and we soar 
away together, higher and ever higher. Then I suddenly 
seem to wake, and find myself again on the chest in the 
dark garret, my cheeks wet with tears, without a single 
thought, repeating the words, we soar higher and 

ever higher.’’ For a long time, I exert all my power to ex- 
plain my situation ; but only one fearfully gloomy, impenetra- 
ble perspective offers itself to my mental gaze at the present 
moment. I endeavor to return once more to those cheer- 
ing, blissful dreams, which destro3'ed consciousness of reality ; 
but to my amazement, no sooner do 1 enter upon the traces 
of my former reveries, than I see that a prolongation of 
them is impossible, and, what is still more surprising, that 
it no longer affords me any pleasure. 


166 


BOYHOOD. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

GRIND LONG ENOUGH, AND THE MEAL WILL COME. 

I SPENT the night in the garret, and no one came near me ; 
it was only on the following clay, that is to say, on Sunday, 
that I was taken to a little room adjoining the schoolroom, 
and again locked up. 1 began to hope that my punishment 
would be confined to imprisonment; and my thonglits, under 
the influence of sweet, refreshing slumber, of the bright sun- 
light playing upon the frost-patterns on the windows, and 
the custornaiy noises of the day in the streets, began to 
grow composed. Nevertheless, my solitude was very oppres- 
sive : I wanted to move about, to tell somebody all that was 
seething in my soul, and there was not a living being near 
me. This position of affairs was all the more disagreeable, 
beeause, howev(*r repulsive it was to me, I could not avoid 
hearing St. Jerome whistling various ga}' airs with perfect 
tranquillity, as he walked about his room. 1 was fully per- 
suaded that he did not want to whistle at all, but that he 
did it solelv for the sake of tormentino- me. 

At two o’clock, St. Jerome a-nd Volodya went down-stairs ; 
but Nikolai brought my dinner, and when I spoke to him 
about what I had done, and what awaited me, he said : 

“ Eh, sir! don’t grieve ; grind long enough, and the meal 
will come.” ^ 

This adage, which, later on, more than once sustained my 
firmness of s})irit, comforted me somewhat ; but the very 
fact that they had not sent me bread and water alone, but a 
complete dinner, including rose patties, caused me to meditate 
profoundly. If they had not sent me the rose patties, then 
it would have signified that I was to be punishecl by imi)ris- 
onment : but now it turned out that I had not been punished 
yet, that I was only isolated from others as a pernicious 
person, and that chastisement was still before me. While 

1 Equivalent to various English proverbs which inculcate patience. 


BOYHOOD. 


167 


I was busy with the solution of this question, the key turned 
in the lock of my prison, and St. Jerome entered the room, 
with a stern, official countenance. 

“ Come to your grandmother,” he said, without looking at 
me. 

I wanted to clean the cuffs of my jacket, which were 
smeared with chalk, before leaving the room ; but St. Jerome 
told me that this was quite unnecessary, as though I was al- 
ready in such a pitiful moral condition that it was not worth 
while to trouble myself about my external appearance. 

Katenka, Liubotchka, and Volodya stared at me, as St. 
Jerome led me through the hall by the hand, with exactly 
the same expression with which we generally gaze upon the 
prisoners who are led past our windows every week. But 
when I approached grandmamma’s chair with the intention 
of kissing lier hand, she turned away from me, and hid her 
hand beneath her mantilla. 

“ Well, my dear,” she said, after a tolerably long silence, 
during which she surveyed me from head to foot with such a 
look that I did not know what to do with my eyes and hands, 
“ I must say that you prize my love, and afford me true 
pleasure. M. St. Jerome, who at my request,” she added, 
pausing on each word, undertook your education, does not 
wish now to remain in my house any longer. Why? Because 
of you, my dear. I did hope that 3011 would be grateful,” 
she continued after a short silence, and in a tone which 
showed that her speech had been prepared beforehand, “for 
his care and labor, that 3^011 would understand how to value 
his services ; but you, a simpleton, a little boy, have brought 
3’ourself to raise 3^0111- hand against him. Very good! Ex- 
tremely fine ! J, also, begin to think that 3’ou are incapable 
of appreciating gentle treatment, that other and more de- 
graded means are required for you. Ask his pardon this 
instant,” she added in a tone of stern command, pointing to 
St. Jerome : “do you hear? ” 

1 glanced in the direction indicated by grandmamma’s 
hand, and, catching sight of St. Jerome’s coat, turned away, 
and (lid not stir from the spot ; and again I began to feel 
that sinking at my heart. 

“ AVJiat? Don’t 3’ou hear what I say to 3’ou? ” 

I trembled all over, but did not move. 

“ Koko I ” said grandmamma, who must have perceived 
the inward agony which I was suffering. “Koko!” she 


168 


BOYHOOD. 


said in a tender, rather than a commanding, voice, “ is this 
you? ” 

“Grandmamma, I will not beg his pardon, because” — 
said I, pausing suddenly, for I felt that I should not be able 
to restrain the tears which were suffocating me if 1 uttered a 
single word more. 

“ I command you, I beseech you. What is the matter 
with you ? ’ ’ 

‘‘ 1 — I — won’t — I can’t,” I said; and the stifled sobs 
which had collected in my breast suddenly cast down the 
barriers which restrained them, and dissolved in a flood of 
despair. 

“ Is this the wa}' you obey your second mother? is this the 
way you repay her kindness? ” said 8t. Jerome in a tragic 
voice. “ On 3"our knees ! ” 

“My God, if she could have seen this!” said grand- 
mamma, turning away from me, and wiping her tears wliich 
began to make their a[)pearance. “ If she could have seen — 
All is for the best. Yes, she could not have borne this sor- 
row, she could not have borne it.” 

And grandmamma wept more and more violently. I wept 
also, but I never thought of begging pardon. 

“ Calm yourself, in the name of heaven, Madame la Com- 
tesse,” said 8t. Jerome. 

But grandmamma no longer heard him : she covered her 
face with her hands, and her sobs speedily turned into hic- 
coughs and hysterics. Mimi and Gascha rushed into the 
room with frightened faces, and made her smell of some 
spirits, and a running and whispering speedily’ arose all over 
the room. 

“Admire your work,” said St. Jerome, leading me up-stairs. 

“ M3’ God, what have I done? What a frightful criminal 
I am I ” 

As soon as St. Jerome had gone down-stairs again, after 
ordering me to go to my room, I ran to the great staircase 
leading to the street, without giving myself any reason for 
what I was about. 

I do not remember whether I meant to run away, or to 
drown myself : I 01113" know, that covering my face with my 
hands, in order that I might not see au3" one, I ran farther 
and farther down those stairs. 

“ Where are you going? ” a familiar voice inquired all at 
once. “ I want you too, my dear.” 


BOYHOOD. 


169 


I tried to run past ; but papa caught me bv the hand, and 
said sternly : 

“ Come with me, my good fellow ! How dared you touch 
the portfolio in my study? ” said he, leading me "after him 
into the little boudoir. “ Eh ! Why are you silent? Hey?’* 
he added, taking me by the ear. 

“Forgive me,” I said: “I don’t know what possessed 
me.” 

“Ah, you don’t know what possessed you! you don’t 
know ! you don’t know ! you don’t know ! yon don’t know ! ” 
he repeated, and gave my ear a pull at each word. “ Will 
you poke your nose where you have no business in future? 
will you ? will you ? ” 

Although my ear pained me very much, I did not cry ; but 
I experienced a pleasant moral feeling. No sooner had 
papa released my ear, than I seized his hand, and began to 
cover it with tears and kisses. 

“ Whip me,” said I through my tears. “ Whip me hard, 
painfully ; I am -good for nothing ; I am a wretch ; I am a 
miserable being.” 

“ What’s the matter with you?” he said, slightly repuls- 
ing me. 

“ No, I won’t go away on any account,” I said, clinging 
to his coat. “Everybody hates me, I know that; but for 
God’s sake, listen to me, protect me, or turn me out of the 
house. I cannot live with him ; he tries in every way to 
humiliate me. He makes me go on my knees before him. He 
wants to thrash me. I won’t have it ; lam not a little boy. 
I can’t endure it; I shall die; I will kill myself, i/e told 
grandmamma that I was a good-for-nothing, and now she is 
ill, and she will die because of me. I — for God’s sake, 
flog me ! why torture me for it ? ” 

Tears suffocated me. 1 seated myself on the divan, utter- 
ly powerless to say more, and dropped my head on his knees, 
sobbing so that it seemed to me that I should die that very 
minute. 

“ What are j'ou crying about, baby?” said papa sympa- 
thetically, as he bent over me. 

“ He is my tyrant — tormentor. I shall die ; nobody loves 
me ! ” 1 could hardly speak, and I began to fall into con- 
vulsions. 

Papa took me in his arms, and carried me into the bed- 
room. 1 fell asleep. When 1 awoke, it was very late. A 


170 


BOYHOOD. 


single candle was burning near my bed, and our family doc- 
tor, Mimi, and Liubotchka were sitting in the room. It w^as 
evident from their faces, that they feared for my health ; but 
I felt so well and light after my twelve hours sleep, that I 
could have leaped from the bed, had it not been disagree- 
able for me to disturb their belief in my severe illness. 


BOYHOOD. 


171 


CHAPTER XVir. 

HATRED. 

Yes, it was a genuine feeling of hatred. Not that hatred 
which is only depicted in romances, and in which I do 
not believe, — hatred which finds delight in doing evil lo 
mankind : but that hatred which inspires you with an uncon- 
querable aversion to a person who nevertheless deserves your 
respect ; which makes his hair, his neck, his walk, the sound 
of his voice, his every limb, his every motion, repulsive to 
you, and at the same time attracts yon to him by some in- 
comprehensible power, and forces you to watch his slightest 
acts. This feeling I experienced toward' 8t. Jerome. 

St. Jerome had lived with us for a year and a half. Judg- 
ing the man now, in cold blood, I find that he was a fine 
Frenchman, but a Frenchman in the' most thorough sense. 
He was not stupid ; he was tolerably well educated, and he 
conscientiously fulfilled his duties toward us ; but he possessed 
the distinctive traits which are peculiar to all his country- 
men, and which are so repugnant to the Russian character, — 
egotism, vanity, impudence, and unmannerly self-confidence. 
All this displeased me greatly. 

Of course grandmamma explained to him her views on cor- 
poral punishment, and he did not dare to whip us ; but in 
spite of this, he often threatened us, especially me, with the 
rod, and pronounced the word fouetter (as if it were fouatter) 
in a very repulsive manner, and with an intonation whieh, 
seemed to indicate that it would afford him the greatest sat- 
isfaction to flog me. 

I did not fear the pain of punishment at all, never having 
experienced it ; but the thought alone that St. Jerome might 
strike me put me into a state of suppressed rage and despair. 

. It had hapi^ened that Karl Ivanitch, in a moment of vex- 
ation, had reduced us to order with the ruler or his sus- 
penders, but 1 recall this without the slightest anger. Even 


172 


BOYHOOD. 


at the time of which I speak (when I was fourteen), if Karl 
Ivanitch had chanced to flog me, I should have borne liis 
chastisement with perfect composure. 1 loved Karl Ivanitch. 
I remembered him from the time when I remembered myself, 
and was accustomed to him as a member of my family ; but 
8t. Jerome was a haughty, self-couceited man, for whom I 
felt no sentiment but that involuntary respect with which all 
groicn-up people inspired me. Karl Ivanitch was a ridiculous 
old man, a kind of man-servant whom I heartily loved, but 
placed beneath myself in my childish comprehension of 
social classes. 

8t. Jerome, on the contrary, was a handsome, cultivated 
young dandy, who tried to stand on an equality with every 
one. 

Karl Ivanitch always scolded and punished us coolly. It 
was evident that he regarded it as a necessary but disagree- 
able duty. St. Jerome, on the other hand, liked to pose in 
the ro^e of an instructor. It was plain, when he punished us, 
that he did so more for his owm satisfaction than for our 
good. He was carried away by his own greatness. His ele- 
gant French phrases, which he uttered with strong emphasis 
on the last syllable, with circumflex accents, were inexpress- 
ibly repugnant to me. When Karl Ivanitch got angry, he 
said, Puppets’ comedy, scamp, little boy of a champagne 
fl}’ ! ” St. Jerome called us “ worthless fellow, vile scape- 
grace,” and so forth, names which wounded my self- 
love. 

Karl Ivanitch put us on our knees, with our faces in a cor- 
ner ; and the punishment consisted of the phj’sical pain inci- 
dent to such an attitude. St. Jerome threw out his chest, 
and shouted, with a majestic wave of the hand, and in a 
tragic voice, ‘‘ On your knees ! ” made us kneel with our faces 
towards him, and beg his pardon. The punishment consisted 
in humiliation. 

I was not punished, and no one so much as mentioned to 
me what had happened ; but I could not forget all that I had 
undergone — despair, shame, terror, and hate — in those two 
days. In spite of the fact that St. Jerome, from that time 
forth, seemed to give up all hopes of me, and hardly con- 
cerned himself with me at all, I could not accustom myself to 
look upon him with indifference. Every time that our eyes 
met by accident, it seemed to me that enmity was far too 
plainly expressed in my glance, and I hastened to assume an 


BOYHOOD. 


ITS 


expression oT indilYerence ; bnt then it seemed to me that he 
understood my hypocrisy, and I blushed and turned quite 
away. 

In a word, it was inexpressibl}* disagreeable to me to have 
any relations whatever with him. 


174 


BOYHOOD. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

THE maids’ room. 

I FELT more and more lonely, and solitary meditation and 
observation formed my principal delights. The subject of my 
meditations I will treat of in a succeeding chapter ; but the 
chief theatre of my observations was the maids’ room, in which 
a very absorbing and touching romance, for me, took place. 
The heroine of this romance was Mascha, of course. She 
w'as in love with Vasili, who had known her when she lived 
out of service, and had promised to marry her at that time. 
Fate, which had parted them five y^ears before, had again 
brought them together in grandmamma’s house, but had 
placed a barrier in the way of their mutual love in the person 
of Nikolai (Mascha’s uncle), who would not hear to his 
niece’s marriage with Vasili, whom he called an unsuitable 
and dissipated man. 

The effect of this obstacle was to cause the hitherto cold- 
blooded and negligent Vasili to suddenly fall in love with 
Mascha ; and he loved her in a way of which only a house- 
serf from the tailor’s corps, with a pink shirt and pomaded 
hair, is capable. 

In spite of the fact that the exhibitions of his love were 
exceedingly strange and unsuitable (for instance, when lie 
met Mascha, he always tried to cause her pain, and either 
pinched her, or slapped her, or hugged her with such force 
that she could hardly draw her breath), but his affection was 
genuine, which was proved b}" the circumstance that from 
the day when Nikolai finally refused him his niece’s hand, 
Vasili took to drinking from grief, and began to loiter about 
the drinking-houses, create disturbances, and, in a word, to 
conduct himself so badly, that more than once he subjected 
himself to scandalous correction by the police. But this be- 
havior and its results appeared to constitute a merit in Mas- 
cha’s eyes, and increased her love for him. When Vasili 


BOYHOOD. 


175 


was in retirement^ Mascha wept for days together without 
drying her eyes, complained of her bitter fate to Gascha 
(who took a lively interest in the affairs of the unhappy 
lovers) ; and, scorning tlie scoldings and beatings of her 
uncle, she stole away to the police-station on the sly to visit 
and comfort her friend. 

Be not angry, reader, at the society to which I am intro- 
ducing you. If the chords of love and sympathy have not 
grown weak within your soul, sounds to which they will respond 
will be found in the maids’ room. Whether it please you or 
not to follow me, I shall betake myself to the landing on 
the staircase, from which I could see all that went on in the 
maids’ room. There is the bench on which they stand ; the 
flat-iron, the pasteboard doll with a broken nose, the little 
wash-tub, and the hand-basin ; there is the window-sill upon 
which are heaped in confusion a bit of black wax, a skein of 
silk, a green cucumber which has been bitten, and a bonbon 
box ; there, also, is the large red table, upon which, upon a 
bit of sewing which is begun, lies a brick wrapped in calico, 
and behind which she sits, in my favorite pink linen dress 
and blue kerchief, which particularly attracts my attention. 
She sews, pausing now and then in order to scratch her head 
with her needle, or adjust a candle ; and 1 gaze and think, 
Why was she not born a lady, with those bright blue eyes, that 
huge golden braid of hair, and plump bosom ? How it would 
have become her to sit in the drawing-room, in a cap with 
pink ribbons, and a deep red gown, not such as Mimi has, 
but like the one I saw on the Tversky boulevard ! She would 
have embroidered at her frame, and I might have watched 
her in the mirror ; and I would have done every thing she 
wanted, whatever it might have been : 1 would have handed 
her her mantle and her hood myself. 

And what a drunken face and disgusting figure that Vasili 
has in his tight coat, worn above that dirty pink shirt, which 
hangs out ! At every movement of his body, at every bend 
of his spine, I seem to perceive the indisputable signs of the 
revolting punishment which had overtaken him. 

“ What, Vasya ! again? ” said Mascha, sticking her needle 
into the cushion, but not raising her head to greet Vasili as 
he entered. 

“ And what of it? Will an}' good come of him? ” retorted 
Vasili. ‘‘If I had only decided on something alone ! but 
now I shall be ruined all for nothing, and all through him.'' 


176 


BOYHOOD. 


“Will you have some tea?’’ said Nadezhda, another 
maid. 

“ I thank you humbly. And why does that thief, your 
uncle, hate me? Why? Because I have clothes of mj^ own, 
because of my pride, because of my walk. Enough. There 
you have it ! ” concluded Vasili, with a wave of the hand. ' 

“One must be obedient,” said Mascha, biting off her 
thread, “ and you are so ” — 

“ I had no property, that’s where it is ! ” 

At that moment the sound of a closing door resounded 
from grandmamma’s room, and Gascha’s grumbling voice 
approaching the staircase. 

“Go try to please her, when she doesn’t know herself 
what she wants. Cursed good-for-nothing jail-bird ! May 
the Lord forgive my sins, if for that alone,” she muttered, 
flourishing her arms. 

“ My respects, Agafya Mikhailovna,” said Vasili, rising 
to greet her. 

“ Well, so you are there! I don’t want your respects,” 
she replied grimly, staring at him. “ And why do you come 
here? Is the maids’ room a place for men to come? ” 

“I wanted to inquire after your health,” said Vasili tim- 
idly. 

“ I shall soon expire, that’s the state of my health,” 
screamed Agafya Mikhailovna, still more angrily, and at the 
top of her voice. 

Vasili laughed. 

“There’s nothing to laugh at, and if I say that 3^011 are 
to take yourself oft', then march ! See, that heathen wants to 
marry, the low fellow ! Now march, be off I ” 

And Agafya went stamping to her room, and slammed the 
door so violently that the glass in the windows rattled. 

She was audible for a long time behind the partition, scold- 
ing at everything and everybody, cursing her existence, 
hurling her effects about, and pulling the ears of her beloved 
cat ; finally the door opened a crack, and the cat flew out, 
swung by her tail, and mewing piteously. 

“ Evidently I had better come another time to drink tea,” 
said Vasili in a whisper; “farewell until a pleasant meet- 
ing.” 

“Never mind,” said Nadezhda with a wink, “I will go 
and see to the samovar.” 

“ Yes, and I’ll make an end of it-onee for all,” continued 


BOYnOOD. 


177 


Vasili, seating himself close to Mascha, as soon as Nadezhda 
had left the room. 

“ I’ll either go straight to the Countess, and say, ‘ Thus and 
so is the state of things,’ or else — I’ll give up eveiy thing, 
and run away to the ends of the earth, by God ! ” 

“ And how can I remain? ” 

“ 1 am only sorry for you, and you should have been free, 
my little dove, lo-o-ng ago, so sureh’ as God lives.” 

•’‘Why don’t you bring me your shirts to wash, Vasya?” 
said Mascha after a momentary silence : see how black this 
one is,” she added, taking hold of- the shirt-collar. 

' At that moment, g’andmamma’s little bell was heard from 
below, and Gascha emerged from her chamber. 

What are you getting from her now, 3^011 vile man? ” she 
said, pushing Vasili towards the door, as he rose hastily at 
the sight of her; “ you have brought the girl to this state, 
and still you cling to her, you wretch ; evidently, it’s merry 
for you to gaze upon her tears. Go awa}". Take yourself 
off. — What good did 3^011 ever find in him?” she went on, 
turning to Mascha. Didn’t 3’our uncle beat 3^011 to-day on 
his account? No, 3*011 will have your own wa3' : ‘I won’t 
marry anybody but Vasili Gruskoff. ’ The fool ! ” 

‘‘ I w'on’t marry anybody, I don’t love anybody, if I’m 
beaten to death for it,” cried Mascha, bursting into tears all 
at once. 

I gazed long at Mascha, who, reclining upon a chest, wiped 
away her tears with her kerchief ; and I made every effort to 
alter my opinion of Vasili, and endeavored to find the point 
of view from which he could appear so attractive to her. 
But, in spite of m3' sincere S3'mpathy with her grief, I could 
not possibly comprehend how such a bewitching being as 
Mascha appeared in my e3^es could love Vasili. 

“ When 1 am grown up,” I reasoned with myself, as I 
went up-stairs to my own quarters, “ Petrovskoe will be mine, 
and Mascha and Vasili will be my serfs. I shall be sitting 
in the study, smoking my pipe, and jMascha will be going to 
the kitchen with her flat-iron. 1 shall say, '•Call Mascha to 
me.’ She will come, and there will be no one in the room — 
All at once, Vasili will enter, and when he sees JMascha he 
will say, ‘ JVIy dear little dove is ruined ! ’ And JMascha will 
cry; and I shall say, ‘Vasili, I know that you love her, 
and she loves you : here are a thousand rubles for you ; 
marry her; and may God gi-ant 3'ou happiness.’ And then 


178 


BOYHOOD. 


I shall go into the boudoir.”^ Among the innumerable 
thoughts and fancies which pass through the mind and imagi- 
nation, leaving no trace, there are some which leave a deep, 
sensitive furrow, so that, without recalling the thought itself, 
one remembers that there was something pleasant in one’s 
mind, and one feels the trace of the thought, and tries to 
reproduce it once again. Such a deep trace did the thought 
of sacrificing my own feeling for the sake of such happiness 
as Mascha might find in a marriage with Vasili, leave in 
my soul. 


1 Or divan-room. 


BOYHOOD. 


179 


CHAPTER XIX. 

BOYHOOD. 

I CAN scarcely believe what were the favorite and most 
constant subjects of my meditations during my boyhood — 
they were so incompatible with my age and position. But, 
in my opinion, incompatibility between a man’s position and 
his moral activity is the truest proof of sincerity. 

During the course of the year, when I led an isolated 
moral life, concentrated within myself, all the abstract ques- 
tions concerning the destination of man, the future life, the 
immortality of the soul, had presented themselves to me ; 
and, with all the fervor of inexperience, my weak, childish 
mind endeavored to solve these questions, the presentation of 
which represents the highest stage to which the mind of man 
can attain, but the solution of which is not granted to him. 

It seems to me that the human mind, in every separate 
individual, traverses the same path during development by 
which it is developed in whole races ; that the thoughts 
which serve as a foundation for the various philosophical 
theories form the inalienable attributes of the mind ; but that 
every man has recognized them, with more or less clearness, 
even before he knew of the philosophical theories. 

These thoughts presented themselves to m3" mind witli 
such clearness, and in such a striking light, that I even tried 
to apply them to life, fancying that 1 was the first to discover 
such great and useful truths. 

Once the thought occurred to me, that happiness does not 
depend upon external conditions, but on our relations to 
them ; that man, after he is accustomed to endure suffering, 
cannot be unhapp}" ; and, in order to accustom myself to 
labor, I held Tatischef’s lexicon for five minutes in my out- 
stretched hands, in sjhte of dreadful pain, or I went into the 
garret and castigated myself on the bare back with a rope so 
severely that tears sprang involuntarily to my eyes. 


180 


BOYHOOD. 


On another occasion, rememberinp:, all of a sudden, that 
death awaited me at any hour, at any moment, I made up 
my mind, not understanding how people had hitherto failed 
to understand it, that man can be happ}’ only by making use 
of the present, and not thinking of the future ; and for 
three days, under the influence of this thought, I neglected 
my lessons, and did nothing but lie on the bed, and enjoy 
myself by reading a romance and eating gingerbread with 
Kronoft’ honey, for which 1 spent the last money I had. 

On another occasion, while standing before the blackboard 
engaged in drawing various figures upon it with chalk, I was 
suddenly struck by the thought : Why is symmetry pleasing 
to the eye? AVhat is symmetry? 

It is an inborn feeling, 1 answered myself. But on what 
is it founded? Is there symmetry in every thing in life? On 
the contrary, here is life. And I drew an oval figure on the 
blackboard. After life the soul passes into eternity. And 
from one side of the oval, I drew a line which extended to 
the very edge of the board. Why not another similar line 
from the other side? Yes, and, as a matter of fact, what kind 
of eternity is that which is on one side only? for we certainly 
have existed before this life, although we have lost the 
memory of it. 

This reasoning, which appeared to me extremely novel and 
lucid, and whose thread I can now only catch with difficulty, 
pleased me excessively, and I took a sheet of paper with the 
idea of committing it to writing ; but, in the process, such a 
mass of thoughts suddenly entered my mind, that I was 
obliged to rise and walk about the room. When I approached 
the window, my attention turned on the water-carrier horse 
which the coachman was harnessing at the moment ; and all 
my thoughts were concentrated upon the solution of the 
question. Into what animal or man will the soul of that 
horse migrate, when it is set free? At that moment, 
Volodya was passing through the room, and smiled, perceiv- 
ing that I w^as meditating something ; and that smile was suf- 
ficient to make me comprehend that all I had been thinking 
about was the most frightful nonsense. 

I have related this, to me, memorable occasion, merely for 
the purpose of giving the reader to understand the uatiu'e of 
my reflections. 

But in none of all the philosophical directions was I drawn 
so far as by scepticism, which at one time brought me into a 


BOYHOOD. 


181 


state bordering on madness. I fancied that, besides myself, 
nothing and nobody existed in the whole world ; that objects 
were not objects, but images which only appeared when I 
directed my attention to them ; and that, as soon as I ceased 
to think of them, the objects disappeared. 

In a word, I agreed with Sehelling in the conviction that 
objects do not exist, but only my relation to them exists. 
There were moments, when, under the influence of this fixed 
idea., I reached such a stage of derangement, that I some- 
times glanced quickly in the opposite direction, hoping to 
suddenly find nothingness (neant) where 1 was not. 

A pitifubworthlessspringof moral action is the mind of man ! 

My weak mind could not penetrate the impenetrable ; but 
in this labor, which was beyond its strength, 1 lost, one after 
the other, the convictions which, for the happiness of my 
own life, I never should have dared to touch upon. 

From all this heavy moral toil I brought away nothing 
except a quickness of mind which weakened the force of my 
will, and a habit of constant moral analysis, which destroyed 
freshness of feeling and clearness of judgment. 

Abstract thoughts take shape, in consequence of man’s 
capacity to seize with his perceptions the state of his soul at 
any given moment, and transfer it to his memory. My tend- 
ency to al)stract meditation developed the perceptive facul- 
ties in me to such an unnatural degree, that frequently, 
when I began to think of the simplest sort of thing, I fell 
into an inextricable circle of analysis of my thoughts, and 
no longer considered the question which had occupied me, 
but thought of what I wxas thinking about. When I asked 
m 3 'self. Of what am I thinking? I replied, I think of what I 
am thinking. 'And now what am I thinking of? I think 
that I am thinking of what I am thinking, and so on. 
Intellect gave way before ratiocination. 

Nevertheless, the iiliilosophical discoveries which I made 
were extremely flattering to my self-conceit. I often fancied 
myself a great man, who was discovering new truths for the 
benefit of mankind, and I gazed upon other mortals with a 
proud consciousness of my worth ; but, strange to say, when 
1 came in contact with these mortals, I was shy in the pres- 
ence of every one of them, and the higher I rated myself in 
my own opinion, the less capable I was of disiflaying my 
consciousness of my own merit to others, and I could not 
even accustom myself not to feel ashamed of 1113 ' eveiy word 
and movement, however sinqile. 


182 


BOYHOOD. 


chaptp:r XX. 

VOLODYA. 

Yes, the farther I proceed in the description of this period 
of my life, the more painful and difficult does it become 
for me. Rarely, rarely, amid the memories of this period, do 
I find moments of the genuine warmth of feeling which so 
brilliantly and constantly illumined the beginning of my life. 
I feed an involuntary desire to pass as quickly as possible 
over the desert of boyhood, and attain that ha[)py epoch 
when a truly tender, noble sentiment of friendship lighted up 
the conclusion of this period of growth, and laid the founda- 
tion for a new epoch, full of charm and poetry, — the epoch 
of adolescence. 

I shall not trace my recollections hour by hour ; but I will 
cast a quick glance at the principal ones, from that time until 
my connection with a remarkable man, who exercised a decided 
and beneficial influence upon my character and course. 

Volodya will enter the university in a few days. Separate 
masters come for him ; and I listen with envy and involuntary 
respect as he tai)s the blackboard boldly with the chalk, and 
talks of functions, and sinuses, and co-ordinates, and so on, 
which seem to me the expression of unattainable wisdom. 
But one Sunday, after dinner, all the teachers and two pro- 
I fessors assemble in grandmamma’s room ; and in the presence 
of papa and several guests they review the university exam- 
ination, in the course of which Volodya, to grandmamma’s 
great joy, exhibits remarkable learning. (Questions on vari- 
ous subjects are also put to me ; but I make a very poor 
show, and the professors evidently endeavor to conceal my 
ignorance before grandmamma, which confuses me still more. 
However, very little attention is paid to me ; I am only 
fifteen, consequently there is still a year to my examination. 
Volodya only comes down-stairs at dinner-time, but si)ends 
the whole day and even the evenings up-stairs in his occu- 
pations, not of necessity, but at his own desire. He is ex- 


BOYHOOD. 


183 


tremely vain, and does not want to pass merely a mediocre 
examination, but a distinguished one. 

But now tlie day of the first examination has arrived. 
Volodya puts on his blue coat with brass buttons, his gold 
watch, and lacquered boots ; papa’s phaeton is brought up to 
the door. Nikolai throws aside the apron, and Volodya and 
St. Jerome drive off to the universit}'. The girls, especially 
Katenka, look out of the window at Volodya’s fine figure as 
he seats himself in the carriage, witli joyous and rapturous 
faces ; and papa says, God grant it ! God grant it ! ” and 
grandmamma, who has also dragged herself to the window, 
makes the sign of the cross over Volodya, with tears in her 
eyes, until the phaeton disappears round the corner of the 
lane, and says something in a whisper. 

Volodya returns. All inquire impatiently, “Well, was it 
good? how much?” But it is already evident from his 
beaming face that it is good. Volodya has received five. 
On the following da}' he is accompanied by the same anxiety 
and wishes for his success, and received with the same iiiTpa- 
tience and joy. Thus nine days pass. On the tenth day, 
the last and most difficult examination of all awaits him — the 
Law of God ; and all of us stand at the window and wait for 
him with the greatest impatience. Two hours have already 
elapsed, and still Volodya has not returned. 

“Heavens! my dears! here they are! here they are!” 
screams Liubotchka, with her face glued to the pane. 

And, in fact, Volodya is sitting beside St. Jerome in the 
phaeton, but dressed no longer in his blue coat and gray cap, 
but in student uniform, with blue embroidered collar, three- 
cornered hat, and a gilt dagger by his side. 

“Oh, if yoa were only alive!” shrieks grandmamma, 
when she beholds Volodya in his uniform, and falls into a 
swoon . 

Volodya runs into the vestibule with a beaming face, kisses 
me, Liubotchka, Mimi, and Katenka, who blushes to her 
very ears, ^'olodya is beside himself with joy. And how 
Laiidsome he is in his uniform ! How becoming his blue 
collar is to his black whiskers, which are almost s[)routing ! 
What a long, slender waist he has, and what a fine gait ! 
On that memorable day, all dine in grandmamma’s room. 
Joy beams from every countenance ; and after dinner, at 
dessert, the butler, with politely majestic but merry counte- 
nance, brings in a bottle of ciiampagne, enveloped in a 


184 


BOYHOOD. 


nniikin. Granrlmamma drinks cliampagnc, for the first tirco 
since mamma's death : she drinks a wliole glass, as she 
congratulates Volodya, and she weeps again with joy as she 
looks at him. Volodya drives out of the court-yard in his 
own eciuipnge now, receives his acquaintances in his own 
a])nrtmenls, smokes tobacco, goes to balls; and I even saw 
him and his companions, on om* occasion, drink up two bottles 
of champagne in his room, and at evciy glass jiroiiose the 
healths of some mysterious personages, and dispute as to 
which one the bottom of the bottle belonged to- But he 
dines regularly at home, and sits in the boudoir after dinner, 
as before, and is forever engaged in some mysterious discus- 
sion with Katenka; but so far as I can hear — for I do not 
take })art in their conversation — the}" aie merely talking of 
the heroes and heroines of the novels which they have read, 
of love and jealousy; and I cannot at all understand what 
interest they can lind in such discussions, and why they 
smile so delicately and dispute so warmly. 

1 observe in general, thnt some strange relations exist 
between Katenka and Volodya, besides the readily intelligible 
friendship between companions of childhood, which set them 
a[)art from us, and unite them to each other in a mysterious 
way. 


BOYHOOD. 


185 


CHAPTER XXL 

KATENKA AND LIUBOTCIIKA- 

Katenka is sixteen, she is grown up: the angularity of 
form, the timidity and awkwardness of movement, ))eouliar 
to girls in the age of transition, have made way for the liar- 
monious freshness and grace of a newly blown flower. Hut 
she has not changed: the same bright blue eyes and smiling 
glance, the same little straight nose which forms almost one 
line with the brow, with its strong nostrils, and the tiny 
mouth with its brilliant smile, the dimples on the rosy, trans- 
parent cheeks, the same little white hands; and for some 
reason, as heretofore, the expression, a pure girl, fits her 
peculiarly well. The only new thing about her is her heavy 
blonde hair, which she wears in the fashion of grown-up 
peo^ilc : and her young bosom, whose advent plainly delights 
yet shames her. 

Although Liubotchka has grown up and always studied 
with her, she is rpiite a different girMn every respect. 

Liubotchka is small of stature, and in consequence of the 
rickets her legs are still crooked, and her figure is very ugly. 
The only j)rctly thing about her face is her eyes, and they 
arc really very beautiful, — large and black, and with such 
an indefinably attractive expression of dignity and simplicity 
that it is impossible not to remark them. Liubotchka is nab 
Ural and simple in every thing. Katenka does not wish to be 
like any one else in any respect. Liubotchka’s gaze is al- 
ways straight forward ; and sometimes she fixes her great 
black eyes on a person, and keeps them there so long that 
she is rei)roved and told that it is not polite. 

Katenka, on the other hnnd, drops her eyelashes, draws 
her lids together, and declares that she is short-sighted, 
though I know very well that her sight is perfectly good. 
Liubotchka does not like to attitudinize before strangers ; 
and when any of tiie guests begin to kiss her, she pouts, and 


186 


JiOYUOOI). 


Rnys that slio cannot endure scmthneid. Katenka, on the con- 
trary, l)ccoinos particulai 1}' affectionate witli JMimi in the 
jnesence of guests, and loves to promenade in the hall, in 
the emhrace of some girl. Liuhotchka is a terrible laugher; 
and sometimes, in ontburst of merriment, she flourishes her 
hands, and runs about the room. Katenka, on the con- 
trary, covers her mouth with her hands or her handkerchief 
when she begins to laugh. Linbotchka is always dreadfully 
glad when she succeeds in talking with a grown-up man, and 
declares that she will certainly marry a liussar ; but Katenka 
says that all men are hateful to her. that she will never 
inan y, and becomes quite a different girl when a man speaks 
to tier, just as though she were afraid of something. Idii- 
botchka is forever offended with Mimi because they lace her 
lip so tight in corsets that she “can’t breathe,” and she is 
fond of eating ; but Katenka, on the other hand, often thrusts 
her finger under the point of her bodice, and shows ns how 
loose it is for her, and she eats very little. Linbotchka 
loves to draw heads, but Katenka draws only flowers and 
butterflies. Idiibotchka iflays Field’s concertos perfectly, 
and some of Leethoven’s sonatas. Katenka plays varia- 
tions and waltzes, retards the time, pounds, uses the pedal 
incessantly; and before she begins to pla}^ any thing, she 
strikes three arpeggio chords. 

IJiit Katenka, according to my opinion then, was much 
more like an adult, and therefore she pleased me far more. 


BOYHOOD. 


187 


/ 


CHAPTER XXII. 

PAPA. 

Papa had been particular!}’ gay since Volodya’s entrance 
to the nniversil}’, and comes to dine with grandmamma much 
oftener than usual. Moreover, the cause of his cheerfulness, 
as 1 have learned from Nikolai, consists in the fact that he has 
won a remarkably large amount of money of late. It even 
hai)[)ens that he sometimes comes to us in the evening before 
going to his club, sits down at the piano, gathers us all about 
him, and sings gypsy songs, accompanying them by stamping 
his feet in tlieir soft shoes (he cannot bear heels, and never 
wears them) . And then the rapture of his favorite Liubotchka, 
on her side, who adores him, is worth seeing. Sometimes 
he comes to the schoolroom, and listens with a stern counte- 
nance while I recite my lessons ; but I perceive, from the 
occasional words with which he endeavors to set me right, 
that he is but badly acquainted with what I am learning. 
Sometimes he gives us a sly wink, and makes signs to us, 
when orandmamma begins to grumble and get into a rage 
with everybody without cause. “ Now it’s our turn to catch 
it, children,” he says afterwards. On the whole, he has 
descended somewhat in 1113^ e3’es from the unapproachable 
height upon which my childish imagination had placed him. 
I kiss his large white hand, with the same feeling of genuine 
love and respect ; but I alread}" permit m3’self to think of 
him, to pass judgment on his acts, and thoughts occur to me 
in regard to him which frighten me. Never shall I forget one 
circumstance which inspired many such thoughts in me, and 
caused me mucii moral suffering. 

Once, late in the evening, he entered the drawing-room, in 
his black dress-coat and white waistcoat, in order to carry 
off ^"olodya with him to a ball. The latter was dressing in 
his own room at the time. Grandmother was waiting in her 
bedroom for Volodya to come and show himself to her (she 


188 


BOYHOOD. 


had a habit of summoning him to her presence before every 
ball, to inspect him, and to bestow upon him her blessing and 
instructions). In the hall, which was lighted by one candle 
only, Mimi and Katenka were pacing to and fro ; but Liu- 
botchka was seated at the piano, engaged in memorizing 
Field’s Second Concerto, which was one of mamma’s favorite 
pieces. 

Never, in any one whatever, have I met such an intimate 
likeness as existed between my sister and my mother. This 
likeness consisted not in face, nor form, but in some intan- 
gible quality, — in her hands, in her manner of walking, in 
peculiarities of voice, and in certain expressions. When 
Liubotchka got angry, and said, ‘‘ It won’t be allowed for a 
whole age,” she pronounced the words, a lohole age^ which 
mamma was also accustomed to use, so that it seemed as if 
one heard them lengthened, who-o-le a-ge. But the likeness 
was still more remarkable in her playing on the piano, and 
in all her ways connected with this. She adjusted her dress 
in exactly the way, and turned her pages from above with 
her left hand, and pounded the keys with her fist from vexa- 
tion when she was long in conquering a difficult passage, 
and said, “ Ah, heavens ! ” and she had that same indescrib- 
able tenderness and accuracy of execution, that beautiful 
execution like Field, which is so well called jeu perle^ and 
whose charm all the hocus-pocus of newer pianists cannot 
make one forget. 

Papa entered the room with swift, short steps, and went 
up to Liubotchka, who stopped playing when she saw him. 

“ No, go on playing, Liuba, go on,” said he, putting her 
back in her seat: “ you know how I love to hear you.” 

Liubotchka continued her ]jlaying, and papa sat opposite 
her for a long time, supporting his head on liis hand ; then 
he gave his shoulders a sudden twitch, rose, and began to 
pace the room. Every time that he approached the piano, 
he paused, and looked intently at Liubotchka. I perceived, 
from his movements and his manner of walking, that he was 
excited. After traversing the room several times, he paused 
behind Liubotchka’s seat, kissed her black hair, and then, 
turning away, he pursued his walk. When Liubotchka had 
finished her piece, and went up to him with the question, 
“ Is it prett}'? ” he took her head silently in his hands, and 
began to kiss her brow and eyes with such tenderness as I 
had never seen him display. 


BOYUOOD. 


189 


“Ah, heavens! you are weeping I ” said Linbotchka, all 
at once dropping the chain of his watch, and fixing her great, 
surprised eyes on liis face. “ Forgive me, dear papa : 1 had 
quite forgotten that that was mamma's piece." 

“ No, my dear, play it as often as possible,” he said in a 
voice which quivered with emotion ; “if you onl}* knew how 
good it is for me to weep with your ” — 

He kissed her once more, and, endeavoring to overcome 
his emotion, he twitched his shoulders, and went out of the 
door which led to the corridor and Volodya’s room. 

“ Waldemar ! Will 3 'ou be ready soon ? ” he cried, halting 
midway in the corridor. At that moment, Masclia the maid 
passed him, and, seeing the master, she dropped her eyes, 
and tried to avoid him. He stopped her. “ You grow 
prettier and prettier,” he said, bending over her. 

Mascha blushed, and drooped her head still louver. “ Per- 
mit me,” she whispered. 

“Waldemar, are 3 ’ou nearly ready?” repeated papa, 
twitching himself and coughing, when Mascha passed, and 
he caught sight of me. 

I love my father ; but the mind of man exists independ- 
ently of the heart, and often mixes within itself thoughts 
which are insulting to him, with feelings both incomprehen- 
sible and stern concerning him. And such thoughts come to 
me, although I strive to drive them away. 


190 


BOYHOOD. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

GRANDMAMMA. 

Grandmamjia grows weaker from day to day ; her bell, 
Gascha’s grumbling voice and the slamming of doors are 
heard more frequently in her room, and she no longer receives 
us ill the library in her recliuing-chair, but in her bedroom in her 
high bed with its lace-trimmed pillows. I perceive, on salut- 
ing her, that there is a pale, yellowish, shining swelling on her 
hand, and that oppressive odor in the chamber which I had 
observed five years before in mamma’s room. The doctor 
comes to the house three times a day, and several consulta- 
tions have been held. But her character, her haughty and 
ceremonious intercourse with all members of the household, 
particularly with papa, is not altered in the least ; she enun- 
ciates her words, elevates her brows, and says, “ my dear,” ^ 
in exactl}^ the same manner as usual. 

But, for several days now, we have not been admitted to 
her ; and once in the morning 8t. Jerome proposes to me that 
I shall go to ride with Liubotchka and Katenka during lesson 
hours. Although I notice, as I take my seat in the sleigh, 
that the street in front of grandmamma’s windows is strewn 
with straw, and that several people in blue overcoats are 
standing about our gate, I cannot in the least understand 
why I have been sent to ride at this unusual hour. During 
our entire ride on that day, Liubotchka and I are, for some 
reason, in that particularly cheerful frame of mind when 
every occurrence, every word, every motion, excites one’s 
laughter. 

A carrier crosses the road at a trot, holding on to his 
elbows, and we laugh. A ragged vanka^ overtakes our 
sleigh at a gallop, fiourishing the ends of his reius, and we 
shout with laughter. Philip’s kuout has caught in the run- 
ners of the sleigh; he turns around, and says, “Alas!” 


’ Moi mUiiii, equivalent to mo7i cher, and not always a terra of endearraent. 
2 Cabman. 


BOYHOOD. 


191 


and we die with laughter. Mimi remarks, with a face of 
disjjleasure, that onl}' stirpid people laugh without cause ; and 
Linhotchka, all rosy with the strain of repressed laughter, 
casts a sidelong glance at me. Oni’ eyes meet, and we break 
out into such Homeric laughter, that the tears come to our 
eyes, and we are in no condition to repress the bursts of mer- 
riment which are suffocating us. We have no sooner quieted 
down to some extent, than I glance at Linhotchka, and utter 
a private little word which has been in fashion for some time 
among us, and which always calls forth a laugh ; and again 
we break out. 

On our return home, I have but just opened my mouth 
in order to make a very line grimace at Linhotchka, when 
my eyes are startled by the black cover of a coffin leaning 
against one half of our entrance door, and my mouth retains 
its distorted shape. 

“ Your grandmother is dead,” says St. Jerome, coming to 
meet us with a pale face. 

During the whole time that grandmamma’s body remains 
in the house, I experience an oppressive feeling, a fear of 
death, as if the dead bod}' were alive, and unpleasantly 
reminding me that I must die some time, — a feeling which it 
is usual, for some reason, to confound with grief. I do not 
mourn for grandmamma, and, in fact, there can hardly be- 
any one who sincerely mourns her. Although the house is 
full of mourning visitors, no one sorrows for her death, 
except one individual, whose wild grief impresses me in an 
indescribable manner. And this person is Gascha, the maid. 
She goes off to the garret, locks herself up there, weeps inces- 
santly, curses herself, tears her hair, will not listen to any 
advice, and declares that death is the only consolation left 
for her after the death of her beloved mistress. 

I repeat once more, that inconsistency in matters of feeling 
is the most trustworthy sign of genuineness. 

Grandmother is no more, but memories and various re- 
marks about her still live in her house. These remarks refer 
especially to the will which she made before her end, and 
the contents of which no one knows, with the exception of 
her executor. Prince Ivan Ivanitch. I observe some excite- 
ment among grandmamma’s people, and I frequently over- 
hear remarks as to who will become whose })i‘opeity ; and I 
must confess that 1 think, with involuntary joy, ff‘ the lact 
that we shall receive a legacy. 


192 


BOYHOOD. 


At the end of six weeks, Nikolai, who is the daily news- 
paper of our establishment, informs me that grandmamma 
has k^ft all her property to Liubotchka, intrusting the guard- 
ianship until her marriage, not to papa, but to Prince Ivan 
Ivaihtch. 


BOYHOOD, 


193 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

I. 

Only a few months remain before my entrance to the imi- 
Yersit3^ I am studying well. I not only await my teachers 
without terror, but even feel a certain pleasure in my lessons. 

I am cheerful. I can recite the lesson I have learned, 
clearly and accurately. I am preparing for the mathematical 
faculty ; and this choice, to tell the truth, has been made by 
me simpl}^ because the words, sinuses, tangents, dilfereiitials, 
integrals, and so forth, please me extremely. 

I am much shorter of stature than Volod}^, broad-shoul- 
dered and fleshy, homelv as ever, and worried about it as 
usual. I try to appear original. One thing consoles me : 
that is, that papa once said of me that I had a sensible phiz,, 
and 1 am full}' convinced of it. 

St. Jerome is satisfied with me; and I not only do not 
hate him, but, when he occasionally remarks that leitJt. mjj 
gifts and my mind it is a shame that 1 do not do thus and so, 
It even seems to me that I love him. 

My observations on the maids’ room ceased long ago ; I 
am ashamed to hide myself behind a door, and, moreover, 
my conviction that Mascha loves Vasili has cooled me some- 
what, I must confess. Vasili's marriage, the i)ermission for 
which, at his request, I obtain from papa, effects a final cure 
of this uuhapi)y passion in me. 

When the young pttir come, with bonbons on a tray, to 
thank papa, and Mascha in a blue-ribboned cap, kissing each 
of us on the shoulder, also returns thanks to all of us for 
something or other. 1 am conscious only of the rose pomade 
on her hair, but not of the least emotion. 

On the whole, I am beginning gradually to recover from 
my boyish follies; with the excei)tion. liowever, of the chief 
one, which is still fated to cause me much injury in life,-— 
my tendency to metaphysics. 


194 


BOYHOOD. 


CHAPTER XXy. 

Volodya’s friends. 

Although in the company of Volodya’s acquaintances I 
played a rdle which wounded my self-love, I liked to sit in 
ins room when he had visitors, and silently observe all that 
took place there. 

The most freqent of all Volodya’s guests were Adjutant 
Diibkolf, and a student. Prince Nekhliudoff. Dnbkoff was a 
small, muscular, dark-complexioned man, no longer in his 
first youth, and rather short-legged, but not bad-looking, and 
always gajL He was one of those narrow-minded persons 
to whom their own narrow-mindedness is particularly agree- 
able, who are not capable of viewing subjects from different 
sides, and who are continually allowing themselves to be 
carried away with something. The judgment of such people 
is one-sided and erroneous, but always open-hearted and 
captivating. Even their narrow egotism seems pardonable 
and atti’active, for some reason. Besides this, Dnbkoff' 
possessed a double charm for Volodya and me, — a military 
exterior, and, most of all, the age, with which young people 
have a habit of confounding their ideas of what is coinme U 
faut^ which is very highly prized during these years. More- 
over, Dnbkoff really was what is called a man comme il faut. 
One thing displeased me ; and that was, that Volodya seemed 
at' times to be ashamed, in his presence, of my most innocent 
acts, and, most of all, my youth. 

Nekhliudoff was not handsome : little gray eyes, a low, 
rough forehead, disproportionately long arms and legs, could 
not be called beautiful features. The only handsome thing 
about him was his unusually lofty stature, the delicate color- 
ing of his face, and his very fine teeth. But his countenance 
acquired such a character of originality and energy from his 
narrow, brilliant eyes^ and the expression of his smile which 
changed from sternness to childish indefiniteuess, that it was 
impossible not to take note of him. 


BOYHOOD. 


195 


He was, it appeared, excessivel}’ modest, for every trifle 
made him flush up to his very ears ; but his shyness did not 
resemble mine. The more he reddened, the more determina- 
tion did his face express. He seemed angry with himself 
for his weakness. Although he seemed very friendl}’ with 
Dubkoff and Volodya, it was worthy of note that chance alone 
had connected him with them. Their views were entirely 
different. Volodya and Dubkoff seemed afraid of every thing 
which even resembled serious discussion and feeling ; Nekh- 
liudoff, on the contrary, was an enthusiast in the highest 
degree, and often entered into discussion of philosophical 
questions and of feelings, in spite of ridicule. Volodya and 
Dubkoff were fond of talking about the objects of their love 
(and they fell in love, all of a sudden, with several, and 
both with the same persons) : Nekhliudoff, on the contrary, 
always became seriously angry when they hinted at his love 
for a little red-haired giil. 

Volodya and Dubkoff often permitted themselves to make 
sport of their relatives : Nekhliudoff', on the contrary, could 
be driven quite beside himself by uncomplimentary allusions 
to his aunt, for whom he cherished a sort of rapturous rev- 
erence. Volodya and Dubkoff used to go off somewhere 
after supper without Nekhliudoff, and they called him a pretty 
little girl. 

Prince Nekhliudoff impressed me from the first by his con- 
versation as well as by his appearance. But although 1 found 
much in his tastes that was common to mine, — or perhaps 
just for that reason, — the feeling with which he inspired me 
when I saw him for the first time was extremely hostile. - 

I was displeased by his quick glance, his firm voice, his 
haughty look, but most of all by the utter indifference towards 
me which he exhibited. Often, during a conversation, 1 had 
a terrible desire to contradict him ; I wanted to quarrel with 
him to punish him for his pride, to show him that I was sen- 
sible, although he would not pay the slightest attention to 
me. Diffidence restrained me. 


196 


BOYHOOD. 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

DISCUSSIONS. 

Volodya was lying with his feet on the divan, and leaning 
on his elbow ; he was engaged in reading a French romance, 
when I went to his room after my evening lessons according 
to custom. He raised his head for a second to glance at me, 
and again turned to his reading ; the most simple and nat- 
ural movement possible, but it made me blush. It seemed 
to me that his glance expressed the question wdiy I had come 
there ; and his hasty bend of the head, a desire to conceal 
from me the meaning of the glance. This tendency to at- 
tribute signifieance to the simplest movement constituted one 
of my characteristic traits at that age. I walked up to the 
table, and took a book ; but before I began to read it, it 
oecurred to me how ridiculous it was not to say any thing to 
each other, when we had not seen each other all day. 

“ Shall you be at home this evening? ” 

“ I don’t know. Why ? ” 

“ Because,” said I, })erceiving I could not start a conver- 
sation. I took my book, and began to read. 

It was strange that Volodya and I would pass whole hours 
in silence, face to face, but that it required onl}' the presence 
of a third person, even if taciturn, to start the most interest- 
ing and varied discussions. We felt that we knew each 
other too well ; and too intimate or too slight knowledge of 
each other prevents approach. 

‘‘Is Volodya at home?” said Dubkoff’s voice in the 
vestibule. 

“Yes,” said Volodya, lowering his feet, and laying his 
book on the table. 

Dubkoff and Nekhliudoff entered the room in their coats 
and hats. 

“ What do you say, Volodya? shall we go to the theatre? ” 

“ No, I don’t want to,” replied Volodya, turning red. 


BOYHOOD. 


197 


“ AVc‘ 11 , that’s an idea ! Pray let us go.” 

“ I haven’t any ticket.” 

“ You can get as many tickets as you want at the en- 
trance.” 

“ ^Yait, I’ll come directly,” said Volodya, yielding, and 
he left the room with a twitch of his shoulders. 

I knew that Volodya wanted very much to go to the 
theatre, whither Dubkoff invited him ; that he only refused 
because he had no money ; and that he had gone to borrow 
five rubles of the butler until his next instalment of allowance 
became due. 

“How are 3*011, Diplomat? said Dubkoff, giving me his 
hand. 

Volodya’s friends called me the diplomat, because once, 
after a dinner with mv grandmother, in speaking of our 
future, she had said, in their presence, that Volodya was to 
be a soldier, and that she hoped to see me a dijilomat, in a 
black dress-coat, and with my hair dressed a la coq^ which, 
according to her views, constituted an indispensable part of 
the diplomatic profession. 

“ Where has Volodya gone? ” Nekhliudoff asked. 

“ I don’t know,” I replied, reddening at the thought that 
they probably guessed why Volodya had quitted the room. 

“ He can’t have any money! is that so? oh. Diplomat ! 
he added with conviction, displaying his smile, “I haven't 
any money either ; have you, Dubkoff? ” 

“ We shall see,” said Dubkoff, pulling out his purse, and 
very carefully feeling a few bits of small change with his 
short fingers. “Here’s a five-kopek bit, and here’s a twenty- 
kopek piece, and f-f-f-f-u ! ” said he, making a comical ges- 
ture with his hand. 

At that moment Volodya entered the room. 

“ Well, shall we go? ” 

“ No.” 

“How ridiculous you arc!” said Nekhliudoff. “ A\ 113 
don’t you say that you haven’t an3' money? Take m3* ticket 
if you like.” 

“ But what will you do? ” 

“He will go to his cousin’s box,” said Dubkoff. 

“ No, I will not go at all.” 

“Wliy?” 

“ Because, as you know, I don’t like to sit in a box.’' 

“Why?” 


198 


BOY HOOD. 


“ I don’t like it ; it makes me feel awkward.” 

The same old thing again ! 1 don’t understand how 3'OU 

can feel awkward where eveiy one is glad to have 3’ou. It’s 
absurd, my dear fellow.” 

‘‘ What am I to do, if I am timid? I am convinced that 
3^011 have never blushed in your life, but I do it every moment 
for the veriest trifles,” turning crimson as he spoke. 

Do 3'ou know the cause of your timidity? An excess of 
self-love, my dear fellow,” said Dubkoff in a patronizing 
tone. 

‘'An excess of self-love, indeed ! ” said Nekhliudoff, 
touehed to the quick. “On the contrary, it is because I 
have too little self-love: it seems to me that things dis[)lease 
and bore me — because ’ ’ — 

“Dress 3^ourself, Volodya,” said Dubkoff, seizing him by 
the shoulders, and pulling off his coat. “ Ignat, dress your 
master ! ” 

“ Because, it often happens to me ” — went on Nekhliudoff. 

But Dubkoff was no longer listening to him. “ Tra-la- 
ta-ra-ra-la-la,” and he hummed an air. 

“You have not escaped,” said Nekhliudoff; “and I wilt 
prove to you that shyness does not proceed from self-love 
at all.” 

“ You will prove it if you come with us.” 

“ I have said that I would not go.” 

“Well, stay, then, and prove it to the diplomat; and he 
shall tell us when w’e come back.” 

“I will prove it,” retorted Nekhliudoff, with childish ob- 
stinacy ; “ but come back as soon as you can.” 

“ What do you think? am I vain? ” he said, seating him- 
self beside me. 

Although I had formed an opinion on that point, I was so 
intimidated by this unexpected appeal, that I could not an- 
swxu’ him verv promptl3'. 

“ Yes, I think so,” I said, feeling that my voice trembled 
and the color covered my face at the thought that the time 
had come to show him that I ivas t7UeIligent, — “I think 
that every man is vain, and that eveiy thing a man does is 
done from vanit3\” 

“What is vanity, in your opinion?” said Nekhliudoff, 
smiling somewhat disdainfully, as it struck me. 

“Vanity — .self-love” — said I, “ is the conviction that I 
am better and wiser than anybody else.” 


BOYHOOD. 


199 


Blit how can everybody entertain that conviction? ” 

1 do not know whether I am correct or not, but no one 
exce[)t myself confesses to it : 1 am persuaded thut 1 am 
wiser than any one in the world, and 1 am persuaded that 
you are convinced of the same thing-.” 

No, I am the tirst to say of myself, that T have met 
people whom I have acknowledged to be wiser than myself,” 
said Nekhliudoff. 

‘‘ Impossible,” I answered with conviction. 

“ Do you really think so?” said Nekhliudoff, looking in- 
tently at me. 

And then an idea occurred to me, to which 1 immediately 
gave utterance. 

“ 1 will prove it to you. Why do we love ourselves more 
than others? Because we consider ourselves better than 
others, more worthy of love. If we considered others better 
than ourselves, then we should love them more than our- 
selves. and that never happens. Even if it does happen, I 
am right all the same,” I added, with an involuntary smile 
of vanity. 

Nekhliudoff remained silent for a moment. 

“ I never thought that you were so clever 1 ” he said with 
such a sweet, good-natured smile, that it seemed to me all at 
once that I was perfectly happy. 

Praise acts so powerfully not only on the feelings but on 
the mind of man, that under its pleasant influence it seemed 
to me that 1 became much more clever, and ideas occurred to 
me one after the other with unusual swiftness. From vanity 
we passed, without noticing it, to love ; and discussion on this 
theme seemed inexhaustible. Although our judgments might 
seem utter nonsense to an uninterested listener, — so unin- 
telligible and one-sided were the}’, — they possessed a lofty 
significance for us. Our souls were so agreeably attuned in 
harmony, that the slightest touch upon any chord in one found 
an echo in the other. We took pleasure in this mutual eclio- 
ing of the divers chords which we touched in our discussion. 
It seemed to us that time and words were lacking to express 
to each other the thoughts which sought utterance. 


200 


BOYHOOD. 


CHAPTER XXVn. 

THE BEGINNING OF FRIENDSHIP. 

From that time, rather strange but very agreeable rela- 
tions existed between me and Dmitri Xekhliudoff. In the 
presence of strangers, he paid hardly any attention to me ; 
but as soon as we chanced to be alone, we seatial ourselves 
in some quiet nook, and began to discuss, forgetful of every 
thing, and perceiving not how the time flewN 

AVe talked of the future life, and of the arts, and of the 
government service, and marriage, and bringing up children ; 
and it never entered our heads that all we said was the 
most frightful nonsense. It never occurred to us, because 
the nonsense we talked was wise and nice nonsense ; and 
in youth one still prizes wisdom, and believes in it. In 
3’outh, all the powers of the soul are directed towards the 
future ; and that future assumes such varied, vivid, and en- 
chanling forms under the influence of hope, founded, not 
upon experience of the past, but upon the fancied possibili- 
ties of happiness, that the mere conceptions and dreams of 
future bliss form a genuine happiness at that age, when 
shared. In the metaphysical discussions which formed one 
of the chief subjects of our conversation, I loved the mo- 
ment wlien thoughts succeed each other more and more 
swiftly, and, growing ever more abstract, finally attain such 
a degree of mistiness that one sees no possibility of express- 
ing them, and, supposing that one is saying what he thinks, 
he says something entirely different. I loved the moment, 
when, soaring liiglier and higher into the i-ealms of thought, 
one suddenly comprehends all its infiiiiteness, and confesses / 
the impossilfility of proceeding farther. 

Once, during the carnival, Nehkliudoff was so absorbed in 
various ])leasures, that, although he came to the house several 
times a day, he never once spoke to me ; and this so offended 
me, that he again seemed to me a haughty and disagreeable 


BOYHOOD. 


201 


man. I only waited for an opportunity to show liim that I 
did not value his society in the least, and entertained no 
s[)ecial affection for him. 

On the first occasion after the carnival that he wanted to 
talk to me, I said that I was obliged lo prepare mv lessons, 
and went up-stairs ; but a quarter of an hour later, some 
one opened tlie schoolroom door, and Nekhliudoff entered. 

‘‘ l)o 1 disturb you?” said he. 

“ No,” 1 replied, although 1 wanted to say that I really 
was busy. 

“Then why did yon leave Volodya’s room? We haven’t 
had a talk for a long while. And 1 have become so used to 
it, that it seems as if something were missing.” 

JNIy vexation vanished in a moment, and Dmiti'i again 
appeared the same kind and charming man as before in my 
eyes. 

“ Yon probably know why I went away,” said T. 

“lArhaps,” he replied, seating himself beside me. “But 
if I guess it, I cannot sa}' why, but yon can,” said he. 

“I will say it: I went away because I was angry with 
yon — not angry, but vexed. To speak plainly, I am always 
afraid that yon will despise me because I am still so very 
young.” 

“ Do yon know why T have become so intimate with yon ? ” 
he said, replying to my confession with a good-humored and 
sensible smile, — “why I love yon more than people with 
whom I am better acquainted, and with whom 1 have more 
in common? I settled it at once. You have a wonderfully 
rare quality, — frankness.” 

“ Yes, J always say just the veiy things that I am ashamed 
to acknowledge,” I said, confirming him, “ but only to those 
people whom I can trust.” 

“ Yes ; but in order to trust a person, one must be entirely 
friendly with him, and we are not friends yet, Nicolas. You 
rememljer that we discussed friendship : in order to be true 
friends, it is necessary to trust one another.” 

“ To trust that what I tell you, you will not repeat to any 
one,” said I. “ But the most important, the most interesting 
thoughts, are just those which we would not tell each other for 
any thing ! ’ ’ 

“And what loathsome thoughts! such thoughts, that, if 
we knew that we should be forced to acknowledge them, 
we should never have dared to think them. 


202 


BOYHOOD. 


“Do yon know what idea has coino to me, Nicolas?” 
he added, rising from his chair, and nibbing his hands, with 
a smile. “Do it. and 3 ’on will see how beneficial it will be 
for both of ns. Let us give our word to confess every thing 
to each other : we shall know each other, and we shall not be 
ashamed ; but, in order that we may not fear strangers, let 
us take a vow ne.ver to sa^' any thing to anybody about each 
other. Let us do this.” 

And we actually did it. What came of it, I shall relate 
hereafter. 

Karr has said, that, in every attachment, there are two 
sides : one loves, while the other permits himself to be loved ; 
one kisses, the other offers the cheek. This is perfectly 
correct; and in our friendship 1 lvir.sed, but Dmitri offered 
his cheek : but he was also ready to kiss me. AVe loved 
equall}^ because we knew and valued each other ; but this 
did not prevent his exercising an influence over me, and 
m>" sulimitting to him. 

Of course, under the influence of Nekhliudoff, I uncon- 
sciously adopted his view, the gist of which consisted in an 
enthusiastic adoration of the ideal of virtue, and in a belief 
that man is intended to constantly perfect himself. Then 
the reformation of all mankind, the annihilation of all 
popular vices and miseries, appeared a practicable thing. It 
seemed very simple and easy to reform one’s self, to acquire 
all virtues, and be happy. 

But God onl>" knows whether these lofty aspirations of 
youth were ridiculous, and who was to blame that they 
w'ere not fulfilled. 


PART III. -YOUTH. 


A NOVEL. 




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YOUTH. 


CHAPTER r. 

WHAT T CONSIDER THE BEGINNING OF A'OUTH. 

I HAVE said that my friendsliip witli Dmitri revealed a new 
view of life to me, its aims and bearings. This view con- 
sisted essentially in the belief that man’s destiny is to strive 
for moral })erfection, and that tliis perfection is easy, possi- 
ble, and eternal. l>nt hitherto I had revelled only in the dis- 
covery of the new thoughts which si)rnng from this belief, and 
in the construction of brilliant plans for a moral and active 
future ; but my life went on in the same petty, confused, and 
idle fashion. 

The [)liiianthi*opic thoughts which T examined in my con- 
versations with my adored friend Dmitri, irouderfid Mitya as 
I called him in a whisper to myself sometimes, still pleased 
my mind only, but not my feelings. But the time arrived 
when these thoughts came into my head with such fi-eshness 
and force of moral disco\ ery, that I was alarmed when I re- 
flected how much time I had wasted in vain ; and I wanted to 
apidy these thonghts immediately, that very second, to life, 
with the firm intention of never changing them. 

And from that time I date the beginning of youth. At 
that time I was nearly sixteen. Masters continued to come 
to me. St. Jerome supervised my studies, and I was forced 
unwillingly to prei)are for the university. Besides my 
studies, my occupations consisted in solitary, incoheient 
reveries and meditation ; in gymnastic exercises with a view 
to making myself the strongest man in the world ; in roam- 
ing, without any definite aim or idea, through all the rooms, 

205 


206 


YOUTH. 


and particular!}’ in the corridor of the maids’ room ; and 
in gazing at myself in the mirror, from which last occupa- 
tion, by the way, I always desisted with a heav}’ feeling of 
sorrow and even of aversion. I was convinced that my ap- 
pearance was not only plain, but 1 could not even comfort 
myself with the consolations usual in such cases. 1 could 
not say that my face was expressive, intellectual, and noble. 
There was notliing expressive about it: the features were of 
the coarsest, most ordinary, and homeliest. My small gray 
eyes were stupid rather than intelligent, particularly when I 
looked in the mirror. There was still less of manliness about 
it. Although I was not so very diminutive in stature, and 
very strong for my age, all my features were soft, flabby, and 
unformed. There was not even any thing noble about it: 
on the contrar\-, my face was exactly like that of a common 
peasant {muzhik)., and 1 had just such big hands and feet,’ 
and this seemed to me at that time very disgraceful. 


YOU TIL 


207 


CHAPTER II. 

SPRING. 

On the j’ear when I entered tlie university, Easter fell so 
late in April that tlie examinations were set for Quasimodo 
AVeek, and 1 was obliged to prepare for the sacrament, and 
make my linal preparations, during Passion Week. 

The weather had been soft, warm, and clear for three 
days after the wet snow which Karl Ivanitcli had been in 
the habit of calling the son followed the JafJier.” Not a 
lump of snow was to be seen in the streets ; dirty paste had 
given place to the wet, shining pavements and rapid rivu- 
lets. The last drops were thawing from the roofs in the sun. 
The buds were swelling on the trees within the enclosures. 
The path in the court-yard was dry. In the direction of 
the stable, past the frozen heaps of manure, and between the 
stones about the porch, the moss-like grass was beginning to 
turn green. It was that particular period of spring which 
acts most powerfully upon the soul of man, — the clear, full, 
brilliant but not hot sun, the brooks and snow-bare places 
l)reathing freshness to the air ; and the tender blue sky, with 
its long transparent clouds. I do not know why, but it 
seems to me that the influence of this first period of birth of 
the spring is even more powerful and perceptible in a great 
city : one sees less, but foresees more. I stood by the win- 
dow, through whose double frames the morning sun cast 
dusty rays of light upon the floor of the schoolroom which 
bored me so intolerably, solving a long algebraic equation on 
the blackboard. In one hand I held a soft, tattered copy 
of Franker’s Algebra, in the other a small bit of chalk, with 
which I had already smeared both hands, my face, and the 
elbows of my coat. Nikolai, wearing an apron, and with 
his sleeves rolled up, was chipping off the cement, and ex- 
tracting the nails of the windows which opened on the front 
yard. His occupation, and the noise he made, distracted my 


208 


YOUTH. 


fiUention. Besides, I was in a very evil and dissatisfied 
state of mind. Nothing would go right with me. I had made 
a mistake at the beginning of my calculation, so that I had 
had to begin all over again. I had dropped the chalk twice. 
I was conscious that my hands and face were dirty. The 
sponge had disappeared somewhere or other ; the noise which 
Nikolai made shook my nerves painfully. 1 wanted to get 
into a rage, and growl. I flung aside the chalk and algebra, 
and began to pace the room. But I remembered that to-day 
I must go to confession, and that I must refrain from all 
evil ; and all at once I fell into a peculiar, gentle mood, and 
approached Nikolai. 

“Permit me; 1 will help you, Nikolai,” said I, trying to 
impart the gentlest of tones to my voice. The thought that 
I was behaving well, stifling my vexation, and helping him, 
heightened this gentle disposition of mind still further. 

The cement was cut away, the nails removed ; but although 
Nikolai tugged at the cross-frame with all his might, the 
frame would not yield. 

“ If the frame comes out immediately now, when I pull 
on it,” I thought, “ it will signify that it is a sin, and that I 
need not do any more work to-day.” The frame leaned to 
one side, and came out. 

“ Where is it to be carried? ” said I. 

“If you please, I will take care of it myself,” replied 
Nikolai, evidently amazed and seemingly displeased with my 
zeal : “it must not be dropped, but they belong in the garret 
in my room.” 

“ I will take care of it,” said I, lifting the frame. 

It seems to me, that if the garret were two versts away, and 
the window-frame were twice as heavy, I should be very 
much pleased. I wanted to torture myself by performing 
this service for Nikolai. When I returned to the room, 
the tiles and the cones of salt ^ were already transferred to 
the window-sills, and Nikolai had brushed off the sand and 
drowsy flies through the open window. The fresh, perfumed 
air had already entered and filled the room. From the win- 
dow, the hum of the city and the twittering of the sparrows 
in the yard were audible. 

1 In order to aid the sand, which is placed between the double windows to absorb 
dampness, little cones of salt two or three inches high are added, about three to a 
window. The salt is put into little paper moulds while damp, to give it this conical 
form, and the moulds are sometimes left also. Tiles or little bricks are often added, 
like cases, between the salt, for ornament ; and provincial aesthetes frequently add 
or substitute little bunches of aruhciul Uovvers. 


YOUTH. 


209 


Every object was brilliantly illuminated; the room had 
gi’own cheerful ; the light spring breeze fluttered the leaves 
of 1113^ algebra, and Nikolai’s hair. I approached the win- 
dow, sat down in it, bent towards the yard, and began to 
think. 

Some new, exceedingly powerful, and pleasant sensation 
penetrated 1113^ soul all at once. The wet earth, Ihrough 
whieh, here and there, bright green spears of grass with 
3’ellow stalks pushed their wa3" ; the rivulets, sparkling in the 
sun, and whii ling along little clods of earth and shavings and 
reddening twigs of syringa with swollen buds which undulate 
just beneath the window ; the anxious twittering of the birds 
thronging this bush ; the blackish hedge wet with the melted 
snow : but chiellvthe damp, fi-agrant air and cheerful sun, — 
spoke to me intelligibly, clearl3g of something new and very 
beautiful, which, though 1 cannot reproduce it as it told 
itself to me, I shall endeavor to repeat as I received it : every 
thing spoke to me of beaut3g hap})iness, and virtue, said that 
both were easy and possible to me, that one could not exist 
without the other, and even that beaut3g happiness, and virtue 
are one and the same. “ How could 1 fail to understand 
this? How wicked I was before! How happy I might have 
been, and how ha})py I ma3" be in the future ! ” I said to 1113^- 
self. I must become another man as quickly, as quickl3’, 
as possible, this very moment, and begin to live dilferently.” 
But, in spite of this, I still sat for a long time in the window, 
d learning and doing nothing. Has it ever happened to you, 
in summer, to lie down to sleep, during the daytime, in 
gloom3g rainy weather, and, waking up at sunset, to open 
your eyes, to catch sight through the wide square window, 
from under the linen shade which swells and beats its stick 
against the window-sill, of the shady, purpling side of the 
linden alley, wet with rain, and the damp garden walks, 
illuminated by the bright, slanting rays ; to 'suddenly catch 
the sound of merry life among the birds in the garden, and 
to see the insects which are circling in the window aperture, 
transjiarent in the sun, and become conscious of the fra- 
grance of the air after rain, and to think, “ How shameful 
of me to sleep away such an evening! ” and then to spring 
up in haste, in order to go to the garden and rejoice in life? 
If this has happened to you, then here is a specimen of the 
powerful feeling which I ex[)erieiiced then. 


210 


YOUTH. 


CHAPTER III. 


REVERIES. 


“To-day I shall confess, I shall purify m3"sclf of all my 
sins,” 1 thonght, “and I shall never commit any more.” 

( Here I recalled all the sins which troubled me most.) “ I 
shall go to church, without fail, every Sunday, and after- 
wards I shall read the Gospels for a whole hour ; and then, 
out of tlie white bank-bill which I shall receive every month 
when I enter the university, I will be sure lo give two 
rubles and a half (one-tenth) to the poor, and in such a 
manner that no one shall know it — and not to beggars, but 
I will seek out poor people, an orphan or old woman, whom 
no one knows about. 

“ I shall have a room to myself ( probabh' St. Jerome’s), 
and I shall take care of it myself, and keep it wonderfully 
clean ; and I shall leave the man nothing to do for me, for 
he is just the same as I am. Then I shall go all day to the 
university on foot (and if they give me a drozhky, I shall 
sell it, and give that money also to the poor), and I shall 
do every thing with the greatest precision [what this ‘ every 
thing ’ was, 1 could not have told, in the least, then ; but I 
vividly realized and felt this ‘ everj' thing ’ in an intellectual, 
moral, and irreproachable life]. I shall prepare 1113^ lectures, 
and even go over the subjects beforehand, so that I shall be 
at the head in the first course, and write the dissertation ; 
in the second course, I shall know every thing beforehand, 
and they can transfer me directly to the third course, so that 
at eighteen I shall gradiiate as first candidate, with two gold 
medals ; then I shall stand mv examination for the degree of 
Master, then Doctor, and J shall become the leading savant 
in Russia ; I may be the most learned man in Europe, even.” 
“Well, and afterwards?” I asked myself. Ihit here I 
remembeied ihat these were dreams, — i)ride, sin, wliich I 
should have to recount to the i>riest that evening ; and I \re:it 


YOUTH. 


211 


back to the beginning of iny argument. “As a preparation 
for my lectni'es, J will walk out to the Sparrow Hills ; ^ there 
1 will select a spot beneath a tree, and read over the lesson. 
Sometimes I shall take something to eat with me, cheese or 
patties from Pedotti, or something. 1 shall rest myself, and 
then 1 shall read some good book, or sketch views, or play on 
some instrument ( 1 must not fail to learn to play the flute). 
Then ahe will also take a walk on the Sparrow Hills, and some 
day she will come up to me, and ask who 1 am. And 1 shall 
look at her so mournfull}^ and say that I am the son of a 
priest, and that I am happy only here when I am alone, quite, 
quite alone. Then she will give me her hand, and say some- 
thing, and sit down beside me. Thus we shall come there 
every day, and we shall become friends, and 1 shall kiss her. 
— No, that is not well : on the contrary, from this day forth, 
I shall never more look at a woman. Never, never will I 
go into the maids’ room, I will try not to pass by it even ; 
and in three years I shall be free from guardianship, and I 
shall marry, without fail. I shall take as much exercise as 
possible with gymnastics every day, so that when I am 
twenty I shall be stronger than Rappeau. The lirst daj-, 1 
will hold half a pood in my out-stretched hand for five 
minutes ; on the second day, twenty-one pounds ; on the 
third day, twenty-two pounds, and so on, so that at last I 
can support four poods in each hand, and I shall be stronger 
than any one at court ; and when any one undertakes to 
insult me, or express himself disrespectfully of her, I will 
take him thus, quite simi)ly, by the breast, I will lift him an 
arshin or two from the ground with one hand, and only hold 
him long enough to let him feel my power, and then I will 
release him. — But this is not well : no, I will not do him any 
harm, 1 will only show him ” — 

Reproach me not because the dreams of adolescence were 
as childish as the dreams of childhood and boyhood. I am 
convinced that if I am fated to live to extreme old age, and 
my story follows my growth, as an old man of seventy I shall 
dream in exactly the same impossibly childish way as now. 
I shall dream of some charming Marie, who will fall in love 
with me as a toothless old man, as she loved Mazeppa ; ^ of 
how my weak-minded son will suddenly become a minister, 
throuirb some unusual circumstance ; or of how a treasure of 

1 Hills iieiir Moscow. 2 About twenty pounds. 

3 An allufciou to rushkiu’s poem, “ Poltava.” 


212 


YOUTH. 


millions will full to me all of a sudden. I am convinced that 
there is no human being or age which is dejirived of this 
benelicent, comforting capacity for dreaming. But, exclusive 
of the general traits of impossibility^ — the witchcraft of rev- 
ery, — the dreams of each man and of each stage of growth 
possess their own distinctive character. During that peiiod 
of time which I regard as the limit of boyhood and the be- 
ginning of adolescence, four sentiments formed the founda- 
tion of my dreams : love for Aer, the ideal woman, of whom 
I thought always in the same strain, and whom I expected 
to meet somewhere at any moment. This she was a little 
like Sonitchka ; a little like JMascha, Vasili’s wife, when she 
washes the clothes in the tub ; and a little like the woman 
with pearls on her white neck, whom I saw in the theatre 
very long ago, in the box next to ours. The second sentiment 
was love of love. I wanted to have every one know and love 
me. I wanted to pronounce my name, Nikolai Irteneff, and 
have every one, startled by this information, surround me, 
and thank me for something. The third feeling was the 
hope of some remarkable, glorious good fortune, — so great 
and firm that it would border on madness. I was so sure 
that I should become the greatest and most distinguished 
man in the world very soon, in consequence of some ex- 
traordinary circumstance or other, that I found myself con- 
stantly in a state of agitated expectation of something 
enchantingly blissful. I was always expecting that it loas 
about to begin., and that I was on the point of attaining 
whatever a man may desire ; and I was always hastening 
about in all directions, supposing that it was already begin- 
ning in the place where I was not. The fourth and principal 
feeling was disgust at myself, and remorse, but a remorse 
so mingled with hope of bliss that there was nothing sorrow- 
ful about it. It seemed to me so easy and natural to tear 
myself away from all the past, to reconstruct, to forget 
every thing which had been, and to begin my life with all its 
relations quite anew, that the past neither weighed u[)on nor 
fettered me. I even took pleasure in my re[)ugnance to the 
past, and began to see it in more sombre colors than it had 
l)ossessed. The blacker was the circle of memories of the 
l)ast, the })urer and brighter did the pure, })right point of 
the present and the raiul)ow hues of the future stand out in 
ix'lief against it. This voice of i-emorse, and of i)assionate 
desire for [)erfectiou, was the chief new spiritual sentinunt 


YOUTH. 


213 


at that epoch of my development ; and it marked a new era 
in my views with regard to myself, to people, and the world. 
Tiiat beneficent, cheering voice has, since then, so often bold- 
ly been raised, in those sad hours when the soul has silently 
submitted to the weight of life’s falsehood and vice, agninst 
every untruth, maliciously convicting the past, pointing to 
the bright spot of the present and making one love it, and 
promising good and happiness in the future, — the blessed, 
comforting voice ! Wilt thou ever cease to sound? 


214 


YOUTH. 


CHAPTER IV. 

OUR FAMILY CIRCLE. 

Papa was seldom at borne that spring. But when it did 
happen, he was extremely ga}’ ; he rattled off his favorite 
pieces on the piano, made eyes and invented jests about Mimi 
and all of ns, such as that the Tzarevitch of Georgia had 
seen Mimi out riding, and had fallen so much in love that he 
had sent a petition to the synod for a divorce, and that I had 
been appointed assistant to the ambassador to Vienna, — and" 
he communicated this news with a sober face ; and frightened 
Katenka with spiders, which she was afraid of. He was very 
gracious to our friends Dubkoff and Nekhliudoff, and was 
constantly telling ns and visitors his plans for the coming 
year. Although these plans were changed nearl}" every day, 
and contradicted each other, they were so attractive that we 
listened to them eagerly, and Liubotchka stared straight at 
papa’s mouth, never winking lest she should lose a single 
word. But the plan consisted in leaving ns in Moscow at 
the university, and going to Italy with Liubotchka for two 
years, and purchasing an estate in the Crimea, on the south- 
ern shore, and going there every summer, and in removing 
to Peterburg with the whole family, and so forth. But 
another change had taken place in papa, besides his remark- 
able gayety, which greatly surprised me. He had got himself 
some fashionable clothes, — an olive-colored coat, fashion- 
able trousers with straps, and a long overcoat which became 
him extremely, — and he was often deliciously scented with- 
perfumes when he went anywhere, and particularly to one 
lady of whom Mimi never spoke excejit with a sigh, and 
with a face on which one might have read the words, ‘M^oor 
orphans ! An unfortunate passion. It is well that she is no 
more,” and so on. I learned from Nikolai (for [lapa never 
told us about his gambling affairs), that he had been very 
lucky in play that winter;, he had won a dreadfully laige 


YOUTH. 


215 


suin at riionibre, and did not Vv^ant to play any that spring. 
Ib’obahly this was the reason that he was so anxious to go to 
the country as soon as possible, lest he should not he able 
to restrain himself, lie even decided not to await mv en- 
trance to the university, but went off immediately after Easter 
to Petrovskoe with the gills, whither \'olodya and 1 were to 
follow him later on. 

Volodya had been inseparable from Dubkoff all winter and 
even until the spring (but he and Dmitri began to treat each 
other rather coldly). Their chief i)leasures, so far as I could 
judge from the conversations which 1 heard, consisted in 
drinking champagne incessantly, driving in a sleigh past the 
windows of young ladies with whom they were both in love, 
and dancing vi^-cl-vis, not at children’s balls any more, but 
at real balls. 

This last circumstance caused a great separation between 
Volodya and me, although we loved each other. AVe were 
conscious that the difference was too great between the boy 
to whom teachers still came, and the man who danced at 
great balls, to allow of our making up our minds to share our 
thoughts. Katenka was already quite grown up, read a great 
many romances, and the thought that she might soon marry 
no longer seemed a joke to me ; but although Volodya was 
grown iq) also, they did not associate, and it even seemed as 
though they despised each other. Generally, when Katenka 
was at home, she had nothing to occupy her but romances, 
and she was bored most of the time ; but when strange men 
came, she became very lively and charming, made e 3 ’es at 
them, and what she meant to express b}^ this I could not in 
the least undei’stand. Only later, when I learned from her 
in conversation that the only coquetry permitted to a girl is 
this .coquetry of the eyes, could 1 explain to mj^self the 
strange, unnatural grimaces of the ej^es, which did not seem 
to surprise other people at all. Liubotchka also had begun 
to wear dresses which were almost long, so that her crooked 
feet were hardly visible at all ; but she ci*ied as much as ever. 
She no longer dreamed now of marrying a hussar, but a 
singer, or a musician ; and to this end she busied herself 
diligejitly with music. St. Jerome, who knew that he was to 
remain in the house only until the conclusion of my examina- 
tions, had found a situation with some C’ount, and from that 
time forth looked upon our household rather disdainfully. 
He was seldom at home, took to smoking cigarettes, which 


216 


YOUTH. 


were then the height of dand3hsm, and was incessantly whis- 
tling merry airs through a card. Mimi became more bitter 
every day, and it seemed as though slie did not expect any 
good from an}^ one of us from the time we were grown 
up. 

When I came down to dinner, I found onl}^ INIimi, Katenka, 
Liubotchka, and St. Jerome in the dining-room ; papa was 
not at home, and Volodya, who was prepaiing for examina- 
tion, was wilh his comrades in Iiis room, and had ordered his 
dinner to be served there. Of late, Mimi, whom none of us 
respected, had taken the head of the table most of the time, 
and dinner lost much of its charm. Dinner was no longer, 
as in mamma’s day, and grandmamma’s, a kind of ceremony 
which united the whole family at a certain hour, and divided 
the day into two halves. We permitted ourselves to be late, 
to come in at the second course, to drink wine from tumblers 
(St. Jerome himself set the example on this point), to lounge 
on our chairs, to go off before dinner was over, and similar 
liberties. From that moment dinner ceased to be, as for- 
merly, a joyous, daily family solemnity. It was quite 
another thing at Petrovskoe, where all, freshl}^ washed and 
dressed for dinner, seated themselves in the drawing-room at 
two o’clock, and chatted merrily while waiting for the ap- 
pointed hour. Just as the clock iu the butler’s pantry squeaks 
preparatory to striking two, Foka enters softly, a napkin on 
his ai-m, and wilh a dignitied and rather stern countenance. 
‘‘Dinner is ready ! ” he says in a loud, drawling voice ; and 
all go to the dining-room, the elder people in front, the 
young ones behind, with gay, contented faces ; rattling their 
starched skirts, and squeaking their shoes, and softly talking, 
they seat themselves in their familiar i)laces. And it used to 
be very different in Moscow, where all stood' softly talking 
before tlie table, waiting for grandmamma. Gavrilo has 
already gone to announce to her that dinner is served : all 
at once the door opens, the rustle of a dress and the sound 
of feet become audil)le, and grandmamma swims out of lier 
chamber, in a remarkable cap with lilac ribbons and all on 
one side, smiling or scowling darkly (according to the state 
of her health) . Gavrilo rushes to her chair, the chairs rattle, 
and with a feeling of cold trickling down your spine — a foi'e- 
runuer of api)etite — you take your rather damp, starched 
napkin, devour your ciust of bread, and, rubbing your hands 
under the table with impatient and joyous greediness, you 


YOUTfL 


217 


gaze at the steaming tureen of sonp, which the butler dis- 
penses according to rank, age, and grandmamma’s ideas. 

I no longer experience any such joy nor emotion when I 
come to dinner. 

The chatter between IMimi, St. Jerome, and the girls about 
the filghtful shoes which the Itussian teacher wears, and Prin- 
cess Kornakova’s flounced dresses, and so on, — that chatter 
which formerly inspired me with genuine contempt, which I 
did not even try to conceal so far as Liubotchka and Katenka 
were concerned, — did not withdraw me from my new and 
virtuous frame of mind. I was unusually gentle ; 1 listened 
to them with a peculiar^ courteous smile, asked to have the 
kvas passed to me respectfully, and agreed with St. derdme 
when he corrected me for a phrase which I had used before 
dinner, and told me that it was better to say je ■puis than Je 
peux. P>ut I must confess that it rather displeased me to 
find that no one paid any special attention to my gentleness 
and amiability. After dinner Liubotchka showed me a paper 
on which she had written down all her sins ; I thought that 
very tine, but that it would be still better to inscribe one’s 
sins in one’s soul, and that “ all that amounied to nothing.” 

“ Wl\y not? ” asked Liubotchka. 

“ Weil, but this is very good ; you don’t understand me.” 
And I went up-stairs to my own room, telling vSt. Jerome that 
I was going to occu[)y myself until time to go to confession, 
which was an hour and a half off yet, with writing out a list 
of my duties and occupations for my whole life, and laying 
out on paper the aim of my life, and the rules by which I 
was alwaj^s to act without any deviation. 


218 


YOUTH. 


CHAPTER V. 

RULES. 

I PROCURED a sheet of paper, and wanted first of all to set 
about a list of iny duties and occupations for the coining 
year. For this the paper must be ruled ; but as I had not 
the ruler by me, I used the Latin dictionary for that purpose. 
When 1 drew the pen along the dictionary, and then 
moved that back, it appeared that instead of a line 1 had 
made a long puddle of ink on the paper ; besides, the dic- 
tionary was shorter than the paper, and the line curved 
around its soft corner. I took another piece of paper, and 
by moving the lexicon I managed to draw the line after a 
fashion. Separating my duties into three classes, — duties to 
myself, to my neighbor, and to God, — I began to write down 
the first ; but they turned out to be so numerous, and of so 
many kinds and subdivisions, that it was necessary to wu’ite 
fust, ‘‘ Rules of Life,” and then to set about making a list 
of them. I took six sheets of pa[)er, sewed them into a 
book, and wrote at the top, Rules of Life.” These words 
were so crookedly and unevenly written that I pondered for 
a long while whether I should not write them over ; and I 
worried long as I looked at the tattered list, and this deformed 
heading. Why does every thing which was so beautiful and 
clean in my soul turn out so repulsive on paper, and in life 
generally, when I want to put in practice any of the things 
which I think? 

The priest has arrived ; please come down-stairs to attend 
to him,” Nikolai came to announce. 

1 hid my blank-book in the table, looked in the glass, 
brushed my hair up, which, in my oiiinion, gave me a thought- 
ful look, and w^ent to the lioudoir, where stood a covered 
table with the images and the wax candles for sacramental 
preparation. Papa entered by another door at the same time 
as myself. The priest, a gray-haired monk with a stern, 


YOUTH., 


219 


aged face, gave papa his blessing. Papa kissed his small, 
broad, dry hand ; 1 did the same. 

“Call Waldemar,” said papa: “where is he? But no, 
.e will make his i)reparation at the university.” 

“ He is engaged with the Prince,” said Katenka, and 
looked at Liubotchka. Liubotchka suddenly blushed for 
some reason, pretended that she felt ill, .and quitted the 
room. I followed her. She paused in the drawing-room, 
and wrote something more on her paper. 

“ What, have you committed a fresh sin? ” I asked. 

“ No, it’s nothing,” she replied, turning red. 

At that moment Dmitri’s voice became audible in the ante- 
room, as he took leave of Volod^’a. 

“ P^very thing is a temptation to you,” said Katenka, enter- 
ing the room, and addressing Liubotchka. 

1 could not understand what had happened to my sister : 
she was so confused that tears rose to her eyes, and her agi- 
tation, attaining the highest point, passed into anger at herself 
and Katenka, who was evidently teasing her. 

“ It’s plain that you are a foreigner [nothing could be 
more insulting to Katenka tlian the appellation of “ for- 
eigner,” and tlierefore Liubotchka made use of it] : before 
such a sacrament,” she continued, with dignit}' in her voice, 
“and you are distracting me intentionally; you ought to 
understand that this is not a jest at all.” 

“Do you know what she has written, Nikolinka?” said 
Katenka, offended by the word “foreigner.” “She has 
written ’ ’ — 

“ I did not expect that 3^011 would be so malicious,” said 
Liubotchka, breaking down conqdetely, and leaving us. 
“ Slie leads me into sin, and on purpose, at such a moment. 
1 shall not stand by you in your feelings and sufferings.” 


220 


YOUTH. 


CHAPTER VI. 

CONFESSION. 

With these and other similar distracting thoughts, T re- 
turned to the boudoir, when all were assembled ihere, and 
the priest, rising, prepared to read the pra 3 ’er before confes- 
sion. But as soon as the stern, expressive voice of the 
monk resounded amid the universal silence, niid especially 
when he addressed us with the words, Confers all iioiu' 
sins without shame, secrecy, or justijication, and your smd shall 
he imrijied before God; but if ye conceal aught, so shall ye 
have greater sin,” the feeling of devout agitation which I 
had felt on the preceding morning, at the thought of the 
coming sacrament, returned to me. I even took pleasure in 
the admission of this state, and tried to retain it, putting a 
stop to all thoughts which occurred to me, and tr^dng to fear 
something. ’ 

The first who approached to confess was papa. He re- 
mained for a very long time in grandmamma’s I’oom, and 
meanwhile all of ns in the boudoir remained silent, or dis- 
cussed in whispers who should go first. At length the monk’s 
voice was again audible behind the door, as he read a prayer, 
and then papa’s footsteps. The door creaked, and he 
emerged, coughing, as was his wont, twitching his shoulders, 
and not looking at any of us. 

‘‘Come, do j^ou go now, Liuba, and see that you tell every 
thing. You are my great sinner,” said papa gayly, pinching 
her cheek. 

Liubotchka reddened and turned pale, pulled her list from 
her apron and hid it again, and hanging her head, and seem- 
ing to shorten her neck, as though expecting a blow from 
above, she passed through the door. She did not stay long, 
but when she came out her shoulders were heaving with sobs. 

Finally, after pretty Katenka, who came out smiling, my 
turn came. 1 entered the half-lighted room with the same 


YOUTH. 


221 


dull terror, and a desire to deliberately augment that terror, 
in myself. The priest stood before the reading-desk, and 
slowly turned his face towards me. 

I did not remain more than five minutes in grandmamma’s 
room, and came out happy, and, according to my convic- 
tions at die time, a perfectly [)ure, morally changed, and new 
man. Although all the old surroundings of life struck me 
unpleasantl 3 % the same rooms, the same furniture, the same 
face in myself (1 should have liked to change my exterior, 
just as all my interior had been changed, as I thought), — 
still, notwithstanding this, 1 remained in this refreshing frame 
of mind until I went to bed. 

1 had already fallen into a doze, as I was going over in 
imagination all the sins of which I had been imrilied, when 
all at once I recalled one shameful sin which I had kept back 
in confession. The words of tlie i)ra 3 'er preceding confes- 
sion came back to me, and resounded in 1113 ^ ears without 
intermission. All mv composure vanished in a moment. 
‘‘ And if ye conceal aught, so shall ye have greater sin,” 
I heard incessantlv. 1 saw that I was such a terrible sinner 
that there was no punishment adequate for me. Long did [ 
toss fi’om side to side, as I reflected on my situation, and 
awaited God’s punishment and even sudden death from mo- 
ment to moment, — a thought which threw me into indescrib- 
able terror. But suddenly the happ 3 ’ thought occurred to me, 
to go or ride to the pi iest at the monastery as soon as it was 
light, and confess again ; and 1 became calm. 


222 


YOUTH. 


CHAPTER VII. 

THE TRIP TO THE MONASTERY. 

I WOKE lip several times during the night, fearing to over- 
sleep myself in the morning, and at six o’clock I was already 
on my feet. It was hardly light at the windows 3^et. I put 
on my clothes and my lioots, which lay in a heap and nn- 
brushed by the bed, for Nikolai had not succeeded in carry- 
ing them off ; and without washing myself or saying my 
prayers, I went out into the street alone for the first time in 
m}^ life. 

From beliind the big, green-roofed house on the other side 
of the street, the red flush of the dull, cold dawn appeared. 
A rather hard spring morning frost bound the mud and the 
rivulets, crackled under foot, and bit my face and hands. 

There was not a single cabman in onr lane as yet, though 
I had counted on it in order that I might go and return the 
more speedil}’. Only a few carts were di'agging slowh' along 
the Arbata, and a couple of working stone-masons passed 
along the sidewalk in conversation. After I had gone a 
thousand paces, I began to meet men and women going to 
market with their baskets, and casks going for water. A 
pie-seller had come out at the corner ; one kalatch-baker’s 
shop^ was open, and at the Arbatsky gate I came across 
an old cabman asleep on his worn, blue, patched drozhky. 
It must have been in his sleep that he asked me twenty kopeks 
to the monastery and back, but then he suddenly recollected 
himself ; and only when I was about to take my seat, did he 
lash his horse with the ends of the reins, and attempt to 
drive off. “I must feed my horse ! impossible, master ! ” 
he muttered. 

It was with difficulty that I persuaded him to stop by offer- 
ing him forty kopeks. He pulled up his horse, looked me 
over carefully, and said, “Get in, master.” I confess that 

1 Kalatch, a certain kind of white roll or small loaf. 


YOUTH. 


223 


I was rather afraid that he would drive me to some secluded 
lane, and rol) me. Catching hold of his tattered coat-collar, 
whereupon his wrinkled neck, mounted upon a deeply bowed 
spine, was laid bare in a pitiful way, I climbed up to the 
blue, undulating, rocking seat, and we went shaking down 
the Vosdvizhenka. On the way, 1 observed that the ])ack of 
the drozhky was lined with bits of the greenish material from 
which the driver’s coat was made ; and this fact calmed me, 
for some reason, and 1 was no longer afraid that the izvosh- 
chik would carry me off to an obscure alley and rob me. 

The sun was already quite high, and had gilded the cupolas 
of the cluirches brilliantly, when we arrived at the monastery. 
P’rost still lingered in the shade ; but along the road flowed 
swift turbid streams, and the horse splashed along through 
liquid mud. (Jn entering the enclosure of the monastery, I 
inquired of the first person 1 saw, where I could find the 
pi-iest^ 

“ Yonder is his cell,” said the passing monk, pausing for 
a moment, and pointing at a tiny house with a tiny portico. 

“ I am extremely obliged,” said I. 

But what could the monks, who all stared at me as they 
came out of the church one by one, think of me? 1 was 
neither an adult nor a child ; my face was unwashed, my 
hair uncombed, ray clothing dust}^ my shoes uncleaned and 
still muddy. To what class did the monks, who were sur- 
veying me, assign me? And they examined me attentively. 
Nevertheless, 1 'walked in the direction indicated to me by 
the young monk. 

An old man in a black garment, with a thick gra}^ beard, 
met me in the narrow path which led to the cell, and asked 
what I wanted. 

P^or a moment, I wanted to say, “ Nothing,” rnn back to 
the carriage, and drive home ; but the old man’s face inspired 
confidence, in spite of his contracted brows. P said that I 
must see tlie priest, and mentioned his name. 

“ Come, young sir, I will conduct you,” said he, turning 
back, and apiiarently divining my situation at once. “The 
father is at mass : he will soon be here.” 

He opened the door, and led me through a clean vestibule 
and ante-room, over a clean linen floor-covering, into the 
cell. 

“ \Yait here,” said he, with a kindly, soothing glance, and 
went out. 


224 


YOUTH. 


Tlie little room in which I found n\vself w’-as extremely 
small, and arranged with the greatest neatness. A little 
table covered with oilcloth, which stood between two doulde- 
leaved windows, upon which stood two pots of geraniums, 
a stand supporting the images, and a lamp which swung 
before them, one arm-chair and two common chairs, com- 
pi'ised the entire furniture. In the corner hung a wall- 
clock, its dial adorned with painted flowers, and with its 
brass weights on cliains half unwound : two cassocks hung 
fi-om nails in the partition, behind which was probably the 
bed, and which was joined to the ceiling by white-washed 
wooden poh'S. 

The windows opened on a white wall about two arshins 
distant. Between them and the wall, was a little bush of 
syringa. Not a sound from without penetrated to the room, 
so that the regular tick of the pe’ndulum seemed a loud noise 
in tliis stillness. As soon as I was alone in this quiet nook, 
all my former ideas and memories suddenly leaped out of my 
head, as if they had never been there, and 1 became wdiolly 
absorbed m an inexpressibly agreeable revery. That 
yellow nankeen cassock, with its tattered lining, the worn 
black leather bindings of the books and their brass clasps, 
the dull green hue of the plants, the carefully watered earth 
and well-washed leaves, and the monotonous, interrupted 
sound of the pendulum in particular, spoke to me distinctly 
of a new life hitherto unknown to me, — a life of solitude, of 
prayer, of calm, quiet happiness. 

‘^Months pass by, years pass by,” I thought. '‘He is 
always alone, always calm ; he always feels that his con- 
science is pure in the sight of God, and that his prayers are 
heard by Him.” For half an hour, 1 sat on that chair, trying 
not to move, and not to breathe loudly, in order that I iniglit 
not disturb that harmony of sounds which had been so elo- 
quent to me. And the pendulum ticked on as before, loudly 
to the right, more softly to the left. 


YOUTH. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

A SECOND CONFESSION. 

The priest’s footsteps aroused me from this revery. 

“ Welcome,” said he, adjusting his gray hair with his 
hand. AVhat would you like? ” 

I asked him to bless me, and kissed his small yellow hand 
with peculiar satisfaction. 

When I explained my petition to him, he made no reply 
to me, but went to the ikon,^ and began the confession. 

When the confession was finished, I conquered my shame, 
told him all that was in my soul ; he laid his hands u[)on my 
head, and in his quiet, melodious voice, he said, “My son, 
may the blessing of our heavenly Father be upon you, and 
may he preserve faith, peace, and gentleness within you 
evermore. Amen.” 

I was perfectly happy ; tears of bliss rose in my throat ; I 
kissed the folds of his lady’s-cloth cassock, and raised my 
head. The monk’s face was quite calm. 

I felt that I was taking delight in the sensation of emotion ; 
and, fearing that I might banish it in some way, I took leave 
of the priest in haste, and without glancing aside, in order 
not to distract my attention, quitted the enclosure, and seated 
myself again in the motley and jolting drozhky. But the 
jolts of the equipage, the variety of objects which flashed 
before my eyes, speedily dissipated that sensation, and I 
already began to think that the priest was probably thinking 
by this time, that such a fine soul of a young man as I, lie 
had never met, and never would meet in all his life, and that 
tliere were no others like me. I was convinced of that, and 
tliis conviction called forth in me a feeling of cheerfulness of 
such a nature that it demanded communication to some one. 

I wanted dreadfully to talk to some one ; but ns there was 
no one at hand except the izvoshchik, I turned to him. 

1 i’ictuics of Ibe Baiuts. 


223 


YOUTH. 


“ Well, was I gone long? ” I asked. 

“ Not so veiy long ; but it was time to feed the horse long 
ago, because 1 am a night-cabman,” replied the old izvosh- 
chik, who seemed quite lively, now that the sun was up, 
compared with what he had been before. 

“It seemed to me that it was only a minute,” said I. 
“ And do you know why 1 went to the monastery? ” I added, 
changing my seat to the hollow which was nearer the driver. 

“ What business is that of mine? I take my passengers 
wherever they order me,” he replied. 

“No, but nevertheless what do you think?” I went on 
with my interrogations. 

“ Well, probably, some one is to be buried, and you -went 
to buy a place,” said he. 

“ No, brother ; but do yon know why I w^ent? ” 

“ I can’t know, master,” he repeated. 

The izvoshchik’s voice seemed to me so kind, that I deter- 
mined to relate to him the cause of my journey, and even 
the feeling which I had experienced, for his edification. 

“ I will tell you, if you like. You see ” — 

And I told him every thing, and described all my beautiful 
sentiments. I blush even now at the memory of it. 

“ Yes, sir,” said the izvoshchik incredulously. 

And for a long time after that, he sat silent and motion- 
less, only now and then adjusting the tail of his coat, that 
escaped from beneath his motley feet which jogged up and 
down in their big boots on the footboard. I was already 
thinking that he was thinking about me in the same way as 
the priest, — that is, as such a veiy fine .young man, whose 
like did not exist in the world ; but he suddenly turned to me. 

“ Well, master, is your business connected with the 
quality?” 

“ What?” T inquired. 

“ Your business, is your business with the quality? ” 

“ No, he has not understood me,” I thought, but I said 
nothing more to him until we reached home. 

Although the feeling of agitation and devotion did not last 
the whole way, self-satisfaction in having experienced it did, 
in spite of the people who dotted the streets everywdiere with 
color m the brilliant sunlight ; but as soon as I reached home, 
this feeling entirely disappeared. 1 did not have m}^ two 
twenty-kopek pieces to ])ay the driver. Gavrilo the butler, to 
whom 1 was already indebted, would not lend me any more. 


YOUTH. 


227 


The izvoshchik, after seeing me run throngb the court-yard 
twice to get the money, must have guessed why l was run- 
ning, climbed down from his drozhky, and, although he had 
seemed to me so kind, began to talk loudly, vvith an evident 
desire to v/ouud me, about swiudlers who would not pay for 
their rides. 

Every one was still asleep in the house, so there was no 
one of whom I could borrow the forty kopeks except the 
servants. Finally Vasili, under mj' sacred, most sacred woid 
of honor, which (1 could see it by his face) he did not put 
the slightest faith in, but because he loved me and remem- 
bered the service which I had rendered him, paid the izvosh- 
chik for me. Vfheii 1 went to dress for church, in order that 
I might receive the communion with the rest, and it turned 
out that my clothes had not been mended and 1 could not put 
them ou, I sinned to an incalculable extent. Having donned 
another suit, I went to the communion in a strange state of 
agitation of mind, and with utter disbelief in iny very fine 
proclivities. 


228 


YOUTH. 


CHAPTER IX. 

HOW I PREPARE FOR EXAMINATION. 

On the Friday after Easter, papa, my sister, Mimi, and 
Katenka went to the coimtiy ; so that in all grandmamma’s 
great house there remained only Volodya, myself, and St. 
Jerome. The frame of mind in which 1 had found myself 
on the day of confession, and when I went to the monastery, 
had completely disappeared, and had left behind only a 
troubled though agreeable memory, which was more and 
more dulled by the new impressions of a free life. 

The blank-book with the heading, “ Rules of Life,” had 
also been hidden under roughly written note-books of my 
studies. Although the idea of the possibility of establishing 
rules for all the contingencies of life, and of guiding myself 
always by them, pleased me, and seemed very simple and at 
the same time very grand, and I intended all the same to 
apply it to life, I seemed to have again forgotten that it 
was necessary to do this at once, and I kept putting it off to 
some indefinite time. But one fact delighted me ; and that 
was, that every thought which occurred to me now ranged 
itself immediately under one or other of the classifications of 
my rules and duties, — either under the head of duty to my 
neighlior, to myself, or to God. “ Now I will set it down 
there,” I said to myself, “and many, many other thoughts 
which will occur to me then on this subject.” I often ask 
myself now: When was I better and more correct, — tlien, 
when I believed in tlie omnipotency of the human intellect, 
or now that 1 have lost faith in the power of develo[)ment, 
and donl)t the ])ower and significance of the human mind? 
And I cannot give myself any positive answer. 

The consciousness of freedom, and that spring feeling of 
expecting something, which I have already mentioned, agi- 
tated me to such a degree that I positive!}^ could not control 
myself, and 1 was very badly prepared for my examination. 


Youra. 


229 


Suppose von are busy in the schoolroom in the morning, and 
know that it is necessaiT to work, because to-morrow there is 
to be an examination on a subject, two whole questions on 
which you have not read up at all, when, all of a sudden, a 
spring perfume wafts in at the window : it seems as though 
it were indispensably necessary to recall something: your 
hands drop of themselves, your feet begin to move of 
their own will, and to pace back and forth, and some spring 
seems to be pressed in your head which sets the whole ma- 
chine in motion ; and it is so light and natural in your mind, 
and divers merry, motley reveries begin to run through it, 
and you can only succeed in catching their gleam. Thus an 
hour, two hours, pass unnoticed. Or, you are sitting over 
your book, and concentrating 3^0111’ attention, after a fashion, 
on what 3’ou are reading ; and suddenl3' 3’ou hear the sound of 
a woman’s footsteps and dress in the corridor, and every 
thing has sprung out of your head, and there is no possibility 
of sitting still in one place, although 3"ou know very well that 
nobody can be passing through that corridor except Gascha, 
grandmother’s old maid-servant. “ Well, but if it should be 
she all at once?” comes into your mind; “ and what if it 
should be beginning now, and I let the opportunity slip?” 
And 3 on spring out into the corridor, and see that it is actu- 
all3" Gascha ; but 3"ou do not recover control of 3’our head 
for a long time. The spring has been pressed, and again a 
frightful disorder has ensued. Or, yon are sitting alone in 
the evening, with a tallow candle, in 3^0111- room; and all at 
once 3"on tear 3"ourself from 3’ourbook for a moment in order 
to snuff the candle or to place a chair, and you see that it is 
dark everywhere, at the doors and in the corners, and 3^)11 
hear how quiet it is all over the house ; and again it is 
impossible not to stop and listen to that silence, and not to 
stare at that obscurity of the door which is open into a dark 
chamber, and not to remain for a long, long time immovable in 
the same attitude, or not to go down-stairs, or pass through 
all the empty rooms. Often, too, I have sat unperceived for 
a long time in the hall, listening to the sound of the ‘‘ Nightin- 
gale,” which Gascha was playing with one finger on the piano, 
as she sat alone with one tallow candle in the great apart- 
ment. And when there was moonlight I could not resist 
rising from m3" bed, and lying on the window towards the 
yard, and gazing at the illuminated roof of the SchajK)- 
sclmikof house, and the graceful bell-tower of our parisdi 


230 


YOUTH. 


church, and at the night shadows of the hedge and bushes 
as they lay upon the garden paths ; and I could not help sit- 
ting there so long, that 1 was only able to rouse myself with 
difficulty at ten o’clock in the morning. 

8o that, had it not been for the masters who continued to 
come to me, St. Jerome, who now and then unwillingl}’ tic- 
kled my vanity, and most of all tlie desire to show myself a 
capable young fellow in the eyes of my friend Nekhliudoff, 
that is, by passing an excellent examination, which in his 
opinion was a matter of great importance, — if it had not 
been for this, the spring and libert3" would have had the 
effect of making me forget every thing I had known before, 
and I should not have been able to pass the examination on 
any terms. 


YOUTH. 


231 


CHAPTER X. 

THE EXAMINATION IN HISTORY. 

On the IGth of April I went to the great hall of the uni- 
versity for the first time, under the protection of St. Jerome. 
We drove there in onr rather dandified jihaeton. I was in a 
dress-coat for the first time in my life ; and all my clothing, 
even my linen and stockings, was perfectl}' new, and of the 
very best. When the Swiss pulled ofl’ my overcoat, and I 
stood before him in all the beauty of my costume, 1 was 
rather ashamed of being so dazzling ; but I had no sooner 
stepped into the bright hall, with its polished fioor, wliich 
was filled with people, and beheld hundreds of young men 
in gymnasium uniforms and dress-coats, several of whom 
glanced at me with indifference, and the dignified professors 
at the farther end, walking freely about among the tables, 
and sitting in large arm-chairs, than 1 was instantly disen- 
chanted in my hope of turning the general attention upon 
m 3 ’self, and the expression of ni}^ countenance, which at home 
and even in the anteroom had indicated that I possessed 
that noble and distinguished appearance against my will, 
changed into an expression of the most excessive timidity, and 
to some extent of depression. 1 even fell into the other ex- 
treme, and rejoiced greatl v when I beheld at the nearest desk 
an excessively ugly, dirtily dressed gentleman, not yet old 
but almost entirely gray, who sat on the last bench, at a dis- 
tance from all the rest. 1 immediately seated myself beside 
him, and began to observe the candidates for examination, 
and to draw my conclusions about tliem. JMany and varied 
were the figures and faces there ; but all, according to my 
opinion at the time, were easily divisible into three classes. 

There were those who, like myself, presented themselves 
for examination, accompanied by their tutors or parents ; and 
among their number was the youngest Jvin with the well- 
known Frost, and llinka Grap with his aged father. All 


232 


YOUTH. 


such had down}’ chins, prominent linen, and sat quietly with- 
out openin_s>’ the books and blank-books which they had 
brought with them, and regarded the professors and the ex- 
amination tables with evident timidity. The second class of 
candidates were the young men in the gymnasium uniforms, 
many of whom had already shaved. Most of these knew each 
other, talked loudly, mentioned tlie professors b}’ their names 
and patronymics, were already preparing questions, passing 
their note-books to each other, walking over the stools in the 
anteroom, and bringing in patties and slices of l)read-and- 
butter, which the}’ immecliately devoured, merely bending 
their heads to a level with the desks. And lastly, there was 
a third class of candidates, vei’y few in number, however, 
w’ho were quite old, were attired in dress-coats, though 
the majority wore siirtouts, and were without any visible 
linen. The one who consoled me by being certainly dressed 
worse than I was belonged to this last class, lie leaned his 
head on both hands, and between his fingers escaped dishev- 
elled locks of half-gray hair ; he was reading a book, and 
merely glanced at me for a moment with his brilliant eyes 
in any thing but a good-natured way, scowled darkly, and 
thrust out a shining elbow in my direction, so that 1 might not 
move any nearer to him. The gymnasium men, on the other 
hand, were too familiar, and I was a little afraid of them. 
One said, as he thrust a book into my hand, “ Give this to 
that man yonder;” another said, as he passed me, “Go 
ahead, batiuschka ; ” a third, as he climbed over the desk, 
leaned on my shoulder as though it had been the bench. All 
this was coarse and disagreeable to me. I considered myself 
much better than these fellows from the gymnasium, and 
thought they had no business to permit themselves such lib- 
erties with me. At last they began to call the family names ; 
the gymnasium fellows stepped out boldly, answered well for 
the most part, and returned cheerfully. Our set were much 
more, timid, and answered worse, it appeared. Some of the 
elder men answered excellently, others very badly indeed. 
When Semenoff was called, my neighbor with the hair and 
glittering eyes stepped over- my feet with a rude push, and 
went up to the table. Oii returning to his place, he took up 
his note-books, and quietly went away without finding out 
how he had been rated. I had already shuddeied several 
times at the sound of the voice which called the family names, 
but my turu nad not yet come, according to the alphabetical 


YOUTH. 


233 


list, although some whose names began with K had already 
been called up. “ Ikonin and Teuelf,” shouted some one in 
the professors’ corner all of a sudden. A shiver ran through 
my back and my liair. 

“ Who is called? Who is Barteneff ? ” they began to say 
around me. 

Go, Ikonin, you are called: but who is Barteneff, Mor- 
deneft ? I do not know, confess,” said a tall, ruddy gym- 
nasist as he stood before me. 

“ It is you,” said St. Jerome. 

“ My name is Irteneft',” said I to the red-faced gjunnasist. 
“Did they call for Irteneff? ” 

‘‘ Yes ; why don’t you go? What a fop ! ” he added, not 
loudly, but so that I heard his words as I left the bench. 
In front of me walked Ikonin, a tall young man of five and 
twenty, who belonged to the third class of old candidates. 
He wore a tight olive coat, a blue satin neckerchief, upon 
which behind hung his long, light hair, dressed a la muzhik.^ 
I had already remarked his personal appearance on the seats. 
He was rather good-looking and excitable. 

What especially struck me in him was the queer reddish 
hair which he had allowed to grow on his throat ; and, still 
more, a strange custom which he had of incessantly unbut- 
toning his waistcoat, and scratching his breast under his 
shirt. 

Three professors were seated at the table which Ikonin and 
I were approaching : not one of them returned our salute. 
The young professor was shuffling tickets like a pack of 
cards ; the second professor, with a s^ar on his coat, was 
staring at the gymnasist who was saying something very 
rapidly about ^Charlemagne, adding “at length” to every 
word ; and the third, an old niau, looked at us through his 
spectacles, and pointed to the tickets. I felt that his gaze 
was directed upon Ikonin and me jointly, and that something 
in our appearance displeased him (possibly Ikonin’s red 
beard) because as he looked at us again in the same way he 
made an impatient sign with his head to us that we should 
take our tickets as quickly as possible. I felt vexed and 
insulted, in the first place, because no one had returned our 
greeting, and, in the second, because they were evidently in- 
cluding me and Ikonin in one classification, that of candidates 
for examination, and were already prejudiced against me 

1 Peasant ; cut square all round. 


234 


YOUTH. 


because of Ikoiiiu’s red whiskers. I took my ticket without 
timidity, and prepared to answer, but the professor directed 
his gaze at Ikonin. I read my ticket through; 1 knew it, 
and, while calmly awaiting my turn, I observed what was 
going on before me. Ikonin was not in the least embarrassed, 
and was even too bold, for he moved sideways to take his 
ticket, shook back his hair, and read what was printed on it in - 
a dashing way. He was on the point of opening his mouth to 
reply, I thought, when the professor with the star, having 
dismissed the gymnasist with praise, glanced at him. Ikonin 
seemed to recollect himself, and paused. The general silence 
lasted for a cou[)le of minutes. 

Well,” said the lu’ofessor in spectacles. 

Ikonin opened his mouth, and again remained silent. 

“Come, you are not the only one; will you answer or 
not?” said the young professor, but Ikonin did not even 
look at him. He stared intently at the ticket, and did not 
utter a single woi’d. The professor in spectacles looked at 
him through his glasses, and over his glasses, and without his 
glasses, because by this time he had managed to remove 
them, wipe them carefully, and put them on again. Ikonin 
never uttered a word. Suddenly a smile dawned upon his 
face, he shook back his hair, again turned full broadside to 
the table, looked at all the professors in turn, then at me, 
turned, and flourishing his hands walked jauntily back to his 
bench. The professors exchanged glances. 

“ A fine bird ! ”^ said the young professor: “ he studies 
at his own expense.” 

I stepped nearer to the table, but the professors continued 
to talk almost in a whisper among themselves, as though 
none of them even suspected my existence. Then I was 
firmly convinced that all three professors were very much 
occupied with the question as to whether I would stand the 
examination, and whether I would come out of it well ; but 
that they were only pietending, for the sake of their dignity, 
that it was a matter of utter indifference to them, and that 
they did not perceive me. 

AVhen the professor in spectacles turned indifferently to 
me, inviting me to answer the questions, I looked him full in 
the eye, and was rather ashamed for him that he should so 
dissemble before me, and I hesitated somewhat in beginning 
my answer ; but afterwards it became easier and easier, and 

^ Golubtchik, little dove. 


YOUTH. 


235 


as the question was from Russian liistory which I knew very 
well, I hnished in brilliant style, and even gained confidence 
to such an extent that, desii’ing to make the professors 
feel that I was not Ikonin, and that it was impossible to 
confound me with him, I proposed to take his ticket also; 
but the professor shook his head, and said, “ Very good, sir,” 
and noted down something in his journal. When 1 returned 
to the benches, I immediatel}^ learned from the gymnasists, 
who know every thing, God knows how, that I had received 
five. 


236 


YOUTH. 


CHAPTER XI. 

THE EXAMINATION IN MATHEMATICS. 

In the succeeding examinations I had many new acquaint- 
ances besides Grap, — whom I deemed unworthy of my 
acquaintance, and Ivin, who was afraid of me for some 
reason. Several already exchanged greetings with me. 
Ikonin was even rejoiced when he saw me, and confided to 
me that he should be re-examined in history, that the history 
professor had had a spite against him since the last examina- 
tion, at which^ also, he had thrown him into confusion. 
Semenoff, who was going to enter the same course as I, math- 
ematics, was shy of every one until the very end of the ex- 
aminations, sat silent and alone, leaning on his elbows, with 
his hands thrust into his gray hair, and passed his examina- 
tions in excellent style. He was second ; a student from the 
first gymnasium was first. The latter was a tall, thin, 
extremely pale, dark-complexioned man, with a neck wrapped 
in a black neck-cloth, and a forehead covered with pimples. 
His hands were thin and red, with remarkably long fingers, 
and nails so bitten that the ends of his fingers seemed to-be 
wound with thread. All this seemed very beautiful to me, 
and just as it should be in the case of the first gffmiutsist. 
He spoke to everybody exactly like anybody else, and 1 even 
made his acquaintance ; but it seemed to me that there was 
something unusually magnetic in his walk, the movements of 
his lips, and in his black eyes. 

In the mathematical examination, I was called up earlier 
than usual. I knew the subject pretty well ; but there were 
Gvo questions in algebra which I had contrived in some way 
to hide from my teacher, and which I knew absolutely nothing 
about. They were, as I now recall them, the theory of 
combinations, and Newton’s binomial theorem. I seated 
myself at the desk in tlie rear, and looked over the two un- 
familiar questions ; but the fact that 1 was not accustomed to 


YOUTH. 


237 


work in a noisy room, and the lack of time, which I foresaw, 
prevented my understandino- what 1 read. 

'‘Here he is; come here, Nekhliiidoff,” said Volodya’s 
familiar voice behind me. 

1 turned, and saw my brother and Dmitri, who were making 
their way towards me between the benches, with coats un- 
buttoned and hands flourishing. It was immediately a})parent 
that they were students in their second year, who were as 
much at home in the university as in their own houses. The 
sight of their unbuttoned coats alone expressed disdain for 
us who were entering, and inspired us with envy and res[)ect. 
It flattered me very much to think that all about me could 
see that 1 was accpiainted with two students in their second 
year, and I rose hastily to meet them. 

\'olodya could not even refrain from expressing his supe- 
riority. 

“O you poor wretch ! ” said he; “how goes it? Have 
you been examined yet?” 

“No.” • 

“ What are you reading? Aren’t ^mu prepared? ” 

“Yes; but not quite on two questions. 1 don’t under- 
stand them.” 

“What! this one here?” said Volodya, and began to 
explain to me Newton’s binomial theorem, but so rapidly 
and in such a confused manner, that, reading disbelief in his 
knowledge in my eyes, he glanced at Dmitri, and probably 
reading the same in his, he turned red, but went on, never- 
theless, to sa}" something which I did not understand. 

‘‘ No, Volodya, stop ; let me go through it with him : per- 
haps we shall succeed,” said Dmitri, glancing at the profess- 
ors’ corner ; and he seated himself beside me. 

I immediately perceived that my friend was in that gentle, 
complacent mood which always came ui)on him when he was 
satisfied with himself, and which I sjiecially liked in him. 
As he understood mathematics well, and spoke clearly, he 
went over the subject so splendidly with me, that I remem- 
ber it to this day. But scarcely had he finished, when St. 
Jeiome said in a loud whisjier, “ It’s your turn, Nicolas,’' 
and I followed Ikonin from liehind the desk, without having 
succeeded in looking over the other unfamiliar question. I 
approached the table where the two professors sat, and a gym- 
nasist was standing before tlie blackboard. The gymnasist 
had boldly announced some formula, breaking his chalk 


238 


YOUTH. 


with a tap on the board, and still went on writing, although 
the professor had already said, “ Enough ! ” and ordered us 
to take our tickets. Now, what if 1 get that theory of the 
combination of numbers?” thought I, picking out my ticket 
with trembling fingers from the soft pile of cut paper. Ikoniii 
took the topmost ticket, without making any choice, with the 
same bold gesture and sideways lunge of his whole body as 
in the preceding examination. 

“ I always have such devilish luck ! ” he muttered. 

I looked at mine. 

Oh, horror ! It was the theory of combinations. 

“ What have you got? ” asked Ikonin. 

I showed him. 

“ 1 know that,” said he. 

“ AYill 3 ’ou change? ” 

“ No, it’s no matter; I feel that I’m not in condition,” 
Ikonin barely contrived to whisper, when the professor sum- 
moned us to the board. 

“ Well, all’s lost ! ” I thoughtT “ Instead of the brilliant 
examination which I dreamed of passing, I shall cover myself 
with eternal disgrace, even worse than Ikonin.” But all at 
once Ikonin turned to me, right before the professor’s e 3 'es, 
snatched the card from my hand, and gave me his. I 
glanced at his card. It was Newton’s binomial theorem. 

The professor was not an old man ; and he had a pleasant, 
sensible expression, to which the extremeh’ prominent lower 
part of his forehead particularly contributed. 

‘‘ What is this, gentlemen? you have exchanged cards?” 

“ No, he gave me his to look at, professor,” said Ikonin, 
inventing, — and again the word professor was the last one 
he uttered in that place ; and again, as he retired past me, 
he glanced at the professors, at me, smiled, and shrugged his 
shoulders, with an expression as much as to say, No mat- 
ter, brother ! ” (I afterwards learned that this was the third 
year that Ikonin had presented himself for the entrance ex- 
amination.) 

I answered the question which I had just gone over, excel- 
lently, — even better, as the professor told me, than would 
have been required, — and received five. 


YOUTH, 


239 


CHAPTER XII. 

THE LATIN EXAMINATION. 

All went on finely until the Latin examination. The 
gymnasist with his neck bound up was first, Semenoff second, 
I was the third. I even began to feel proud, and to think 
that, in spite of my youth, I was not to be taken in jest. 

From the very first examination, everybody had been 
talking wdth terror of the Latin professor, who was repre- 
sented as a kind of wild beast wlio took delight in the destruc- 
tion of young men, especially of such as lived at their own 
expense, and as speaking only in the Latin or Greek tongue. 
8t. Jerome, who was my instructor in the Latin language, 
encouraged me ; and it reallj' seemed to me, that since I 
could translate from Cicero and several odes of Horace 
without a lexicon, and since I knew Zumpt very well indeed, 
I was no worse prepared than the rest. But it turned out 
otherwise. All the morning there was nothing to be heard 
but tales of the failures of those who preceded me ; this one 
had been marked zero ; another, one ; and still another had 
been scolded terribly, and had been on the point of getting 
turned out, and so forth, and so forth. Semenoff and the first 
gymnasist alone went up and returned with as much com- 
posure as usual, having each received five. I already had a 
presentiment of disaster, when I was called up with Ikon in 
to the little table, facing which the terrible professor sat 
quite alone. The terrible professor was a small, thin, yellow 
man, with long oil 3 ' hair and a very thoughtful countenance. 

He gave Ikonin a volume of Cicero’s Orations, and made 
him translate. » 

To my great amazement, Ikonin not only read, but even 
translated several lines, with the aid of the professor, who 
prompted him. Conscious of my superiority over such a 
feeble rival, I could not refrain from smiling, and from 
doing so in a rather scornful way too, when the question of 


240 


YOUTH. 


analysis came np, and Ikonin, as before, sank into stubborn 
silence. I meant to conciliate the professor by that intelli- 
gent, slightly ironical smile ; but it turned out the other 
way. 

You evidently know better, since 3 ’ou smile,” said the 
professor to me in bad Russian. ‘‘Let us see. Come, do 
you say it.” 

1 learned afterwards that the Latin professor was Ikonin ’s 
protector, and that Ikonin even lived with him. 1 imme- 
diately replied to the question in syntax which had been 
propounded to Ikonin ; but the professor put on a sad 
expression, and turned away from me. 

“Very good, sir; your turn will come; we shall see how 
much you know,” said he, not looking at me, and began to 
explain to Ikonin what he had questioned him on. 

“ Go,” said he ; and I saw him set down four for Ikonin 
in the register. “Well,” thought 1, “he is not nearly as 
stern as they said.” After Ikonin’s departure, — for at 
least five minutes, which seemed to me five hours, — he 
arranged his books and cards, blew his nose, adjusted his 
aim-chair, threw himself back in it, and looked round the 
room, and on all sides except in my direction. But all this 
dissimulation seemed to him insufficient. He opened a book, 
and pretended to read it, as though 1 were not there. I 
stepped np nearer, and coughed. 

“Ah, yes! Are you still there? Well, translate some- 
thing,” said he, handing me a book. “ But no ; lietter take 
this one.” He turned over the leaves of a copy of Horace, 
and opened it at a passage which it seemed to me nobody 
ever could have translated. 

“ I have not prepared this,” said I. 

“And you want to recite what you have learned by heart? 
Very good ! No ; translate this.” 

I managed to get the sense of it after a fasliion ; but the 
professor only shook his head at each of m}^ inquiring glances, 
and merely answered “ No,” with a sigh. At last, he closed 
his book with such nerv^ous quickness that he pinched his 
own finger between the leaves. He jerked it out angrily, 
gave me a card in grammar, and, flinging himself back in" his 
chair, he continued to preserve the most malicious silence. 
I was on the point of answering ; but the expression of his 
countenance fetteied my tongue, and every thing which J 
said appeared to me to be wiong. 


YOUTH. 


241 


“That’s not it! that’s not it! that’s not it at all!” he 
Biuldenly broke out with his horrible pronunciation as he 
briskly changed his attitude, leaned his elbows on the table, 
and played with the gold I’ing which clung weakly to a thin 
linger of his left hand. “ It’s impossible, sir, to prepare 
for the higher educational institutions in tliis manner. All 
you want is to wear the uniform, with its blue collar, and 
brag of being tii-st, and think that you can be students. No, 
gentlemen ; you must be thoroughly grounded in your sub- 
ject ; ” and so forth, and so fortli. 

During the whole of this speech, which was uttered in 
broken language, 1 gazed witii dull attention at his eyes, 
which were fixed on the floor. At first, the disenchantment 
of not being third tortured me ; then the fear of not getting 
through my examination at all ; and, finally, a sense of injus- 
tice was added, of wounded vanity and unmerited humilia- 
tion. Besides this, contempt for the professor because he 
was not, in my opinion, a man comme il faut^ — which I 
discerned by looking at his short, strong, round nails, — 
influenced me still moie, and rendered all these feelings poi- 
sonous. He glanced at me ; and, perceiving my cpiivering 
lips and my eyes filled with tears, he must have construed 
my emotion into a prayer to increase my mark, and he said, 
as though compassionating me (and before another professor, 
too, who had come u})), — 

“ Very good, sir. 1 will give 3 "Ou a very fine mark ” (that 
meant two), “ although you do not deserve it, out of respect 
to your youth, and in the hope that you will not be so light- 
minded in the university.” 

This last phrase, uttered in the presence of the strange 
professor, who looked at me as if to say, “There, you see, 
young man!” completed my confusion. For one moment, 
a mist veiled mv eyes ; the tenable professor, with his table, 
seemed to me to be sitting somewhere in the far distance, 
and the wild thought came into my mind, with a terrible 
one-sided distinctness: “And wliat if — what will come of 
this?” But I did not do it, for some reason; but, on tlie 
contrary, I saluted both professoi's mechanically, with special 
courtesy, and left the t:d)le, smiling slightly, with the same 
smile, apparently, that Ikonin hud exhibited. 

This injustice affected me so powerfully at the time, that, 
had I been master of my own actions, 1 should not have 
gone to any more examinations. I lost all my vanity (it was 


242 


YOUTH. 


impossible to think any longer of being number three), and I 
let the remaining examinations pass without any exertion, 
and even without emotion. My average, however, was some- 
what over four, but this did not interest me in the least : 
I made up my mind, and proved it to myself very clearly, 
that it was bad form to try to be first, and that one ought 
to be neither too good nor too bad, like Volodya. 1 meant to 
keep to this in the university, although I, for the first time, 
differed from my friend on this point. 

I was already thinking of m 3 " uniform, my three-cornered 
hat, my own drozhky, my own room, and, most of all, of my 
freedom. 


YOUTH. 


243 


CHAPTER XIII. 

I AM GROWN UP. 

And even these thoughts had their charm. 

On my return from the last examination in the Law of 
God, on the 8th of Ma}", I found at the house a tailor’s 
apprentice, whom I knew, from Rosanoff, who had already 
brought my finished uniform and a coat of glossy black cloth, 
open at the throat, and had marked the revers with chalk, 
and had now brought the finished garment with brilliant gilt 
buttons, enveloped in papers. 

I put on this garment, and thought it very fine (although 
St. Jerome declared that it wrinkled in the back), and went 
down-stairs with a self-satisfied smile, which spread over my 
face quite involuntarily, to find Volodya, conscious of the 
glances of the domestics which were eagerl}^ fixed on me from 
the ante-room and corridor, but pretending that I was not. 
Gavrilo, the butler, overtook me in the hall, congratulated 
me on my entrance, handed over to me, by papa’s orders, 
four white bank-bills, and also, by papa’s direction, Kuzma 
the coachman, a piolyotka,^ and the brown horse Beauty, 
to be at my exclusive disposal fjom that day forth. I was so 
rejoiced at this almost unlooked-for happiness, that I could 
not manage to appear indifferent before Gavrilo, and in some 
confusion I said with a sigh the first thing which came into 
my head, which was that Beauty was a very fine trotter ! 
Glancing at the heads which were thrust out of the doors 
leading from the ante-room and corridor, I could no longer 
control myself ; and I rushed through the hall at a trot, in 
my new coat and shining brass buttons. As I entered 
Volodya’s room, I heard the voices of Dubkoff and Nekhliu- 
doff, who had come to congratulate me, and to propose that 
we should go somewhere to dine and drink champagne, in 
honor of my entrance. Dmitri told me that, although he did 

1 A kiad of drozhky. 


244 


YOUTH. 


not care to drink champagne, he would go with ns that day 
in order to drink with me on our beginning to call each other 
thou. Diibkolf declared that, for some reason, 1 resembled 
a colonel. Volodya did not congratulate me, and oul}* said 
very dryly, that now we should be able to set out for the 
country on the next day but one. It seemed as though, 
while glad of my entrance, it was rathei’ disagreeable to him 
that I should now be as much grown up as he. St. Jerome, 
who had also come to the house, said in a ver^; haughty way 
that his duties were now at nn end, and he div! not know 
whether they had been fulfilled well or ill, but that he had done 
all he could, and he should go to his Count on the next day. 
In answer to all that was said to me, I felt a sweet, blissful, 
rather foolishly self-satisfied smile dawn upon my counte- 
nance against my will ; and I perceived that this smile even 
communicated itself to all who talked wutli me. 

And here I am, without a tutor ; I have a drozhky of my 
own ; my name is inscribed on the register of students ; I 
have a dagger in my belt ; the sentries might sometimes 
salute me. “ I am grown up,” and 1 think 1 am happy. 

We decided to dine at Jahr’s at five o’clock; but as 
Volodya went off with Dubkotf, and Dmitri also disappeared 
somewhere according to custom, saying that he had an affair 
to attend to before dinner, I could dispose of two hours as 
I pleased. I walked about through all the rooms for quite a 
while, inspecting myself in all the mirroi s, now wuth my coat 
buttoned, again with it quite unbuttoned, then with only the 
upper button fastened ; and every way seemed excellent to 
me. Then, ashamed as 1 was to exhibit too much joy, 1 conld 
not refrain from going to the stable and coach-house, to 
inspect Beauty, Kuzma, aud the drozhky ; then I went back 
and began to wander through the rooms, looking in the mir- 
rors, connting the money in my pocket, and smiling in the 
same blissful manner all the while. But an hour had not 
elapsed when I felt rather bored, or sorry that there was no 
one to see me in that dazzling state ; and I craved movement 
and activity. As a consequence of this, I ordered the 
drozhky to be brought ronml, and decided that it would be 
better to go to the Ivuznetzky ^ bridge, and make some pur- 
chases. 

I rccxJlected that when Volodya entered the university he 
had bought himself a lithogra[)h of Victor Adam’s horses, 

1 The smiths’ bridge. 


YOUTH. 245 

some tobacco, and a pipe ; and it seemed to me that it was 
indispensable that 1 should do the same. 

1 drove to the Kuznetzk}" bridge, with glances turned on 
me from all sides, with the bright sunlight on my buttons, on 
the cockade in my hat, and on my dagger, and drew up near 
Datziaro’s picture-shop. I glanced about me on all sides, 
and entered. 1 did not want to buy Victor Adam’s horses, 
lest I should be accused of aping Volodya ; but hurrying to 
make my choice as quickly as possible, out of shame at the 
trouble to which I was putting the polite shopman, I took a 
female head painted in water-colors, which stood in the win- 
dow, and paid twenty rubles for it. But after expending 
twenty rubles I felt rather conscience-stricken at having trou- 
bled the two handsomely dressed shopmen with such trifles, 
and yet it seemed as though they looked at me in altogether 
too negligent a way. Desirous of letting them understand 
who I was, I turned my attention to a small silver piece 
which lay beneath the glass, and, learning that it was a 
pencil-holder worth eighteen rubles, I ordered it done up in 
paper, paid my money, and, learning also that good pipes and 
tobacco were to be had in the adjoining tobacco-shop, 1 bowed 
politely to the two shopmen, and stepped into the street with 
my picture under my arm. In the neighboring shop, on 
w'hose sign w’as painted a negro smoking a cigar, I bought 
(also out of a desire not to imitate any one) not Zhukoff, but 
Sultan tobacco, a Turkish pipe, and two tehibouks, one of 
linden, the other of rosewood. On emerging from the shop, 
on my way to my drozhky, I perceived Semenoff, who w^as 
w’alking along the sidewalk at a rapid pace, dressed in civil 
costume, and with his head bent down. I was vexed that he 
did not recognize me. I said in quite a loud tone, “Drive 
up!” and, seating myself in the drozhky, I overtook 
Semenoff. 

“ How do you do? ” I said to him. 

“ My respects,” he answered, pursuing his way. 

“ Why are you not in uniform? ” I inquired. 

Semenoff halted, screwed up his e 3 ^es, and shewed his white 
teeth, as though it pained him to look at the sun, but in 
reality to express his indifference towards my drozhky and 
uniform, gazed at me in silence, and walked on. 

From the Kuznetzky bridge I drove to the confectioner’s 
shop on the Tversky : and though I tried to pretend that the 
news[)apei-s in the shop iuterested me principally, I could not 


246 


YOUTH. 


restrain myself, and I began to devour one sweet tart after 
another. Although I was ashamed before the gentlemen who 
gazed at me with curiosity from behind their papers, I ate 
eight patties, of all the sorts which were in the shop, with 
great rapidity. 

On arriving at home, I felt a little heart-hum, but paying 
no attention to it I busied myself with examining my pur- 
chases. The picture so displeased me, that I not only did 
not have it framed, and hang it in my room, as Volodya had 
done, but I even hid it in a drawer where no one could see it. 
The porte-crayon did not please me now that I had got it 
home, either. I laid it on the table, comforting myself with 
the thought that the thing was made of silver, expensive, and 
extremely useful to a student. 

Ikit I resolved to put my smoking-utensils into immediate 
use, and try them. 

Having unsealed a quarter-of-a-pound package, and care- 
fully filled my Turkish pipe with the reddish-yellow, fine-cut 
Sultan tobacco, I laid a burning coal upon it, and taking one 
of my pipe-stems between my middle and third fingers (the 
position of the hand pleased me extremely), I began to 
smoke. 

The odor of the tobacco was very agreeable, but my mouth 
tasted bitter, and my breathing was interrupted. But I took 
courage, and drew the smoke into myself for quite a long 
time, tried to puff it out in rings, and draw the smoke in. 
The whole room was soon filled with clouds of bluish smoke ; 
the pipe began to bubble, the hot tobacco to leap ; I felt a bit- 
terness in my mouth, and a slight swimming in my head ; I 
tried to rise, and look at myself in the glass with my pipe ; 
when, to my amazement, I began to stagger, the room whirled 
round, and as 1 glanced in the mirror, which I had reached 
with difficulty, 1 saw that my face was as pale as a sheet. I 
barely succeeded in dropping upon a divan, when I was sensi- 
ble of such illness and feebleness, that, fancying tlie [)ipe had 
been fatal to me, 1 thought that 1 was dying. 1 was seriously 
alarmed, and panted to summon assistance, and send for the 
doctor. 

But this terror did not last long. I quickly understood 
where the trouble was ; and 1 lay for a long time on the 
lounge, weak, with a frightful ])ain in my head, gazing with 
dull attention at Bostandzhoglo’s arms delineated upon the 
quarter-pound package, on the pipe and smoking-utensils, 


YOUTH, 


247 


and the remains of the confectioner’s patties i-olling on the 
floor, and thought sadly in my disenchantment, I surely 
am not grown up yet, if I cannot smoke like other j)eople ; 
and it is plain that it is not my fate to hold my pipe, like 
others, between my middle and my third fingers, to swallow 
m3’ smoke, and pulf it out through my blonde mustache.” 

When Dmitri came to me at live o’ch'ck, he found me in 
this unpleasant condition. But after I had drank a glass of 
water 1 was nearl}^ well again, and ready to go with him. 

‘‘ What made you want to smoke? ” he said, as he gazed 
upon the traces of my smoking: ‘‘it’s all nonsense, and a 
useless waste of money. I have promised myself that I will 
never smoke. However, let’s set out as quickly as possible, 
for we must go after Dubkoff.” 


248 


YOUTH. 


CHAPTER XIV. 


HOW VOLODYA AND DUBKOFF OCCUPIED THEMSELVES. 

As soon as Dmitri entered the room, I knew by bis face, 
his walk, and by a gesture which was peculiar to him when 
in a bad humor, — a winking of the eyes and a grotesque way 
of drawing his head down on one side, — that he was in the 
coldly rigid frame of mind which came over him when he was 
displeased with himself, and which always produced a chill- 
ing effect upon my feeling for him. I had lately begun to 
notice and judge m3' friend’s character, but our friendship 
had suffered no change in consequence ; it was still so youth- 
ful and so strong, that, from w'hatever point of view 1 looked 
at Dmitri, I could not but perceive his perfection. There 
were two separate men in him, both of whom w'ere very fine 
in my eyes. Oue, whom I w'armly loved, was courteous, 
good, gentle, meny, and with a consciousness of these ami- 
able qualities : when he was in this mood, his whole appear- 
ance, the sound of his voice, his every movement, seemed to 
say, “1 am gentle and virtuous; I enjo}^ being gentle and 
virtuous, as you can all of you perceive.” The other — I 
have only now begun to comprehend him and to bow' before 
his grandeur — was cold, stern towards himself and others, 
proud, religious to fanaticism, and pedanticall3' moral. At 
the present moment, he w'as that second man. 

With the frankness which constituted the indispensable 
condition of our relations, I told him, when we were seated 
in the drozhky, that it pained me and made me sad to see 
him in such a heavy, disagreeable frame of mind towards me 
on the day which w'as such a happy one to me. 

“Surely something has disturbed 3’Oii : why will 3'ou not 
tell me ? ” I asked. 

“ Nikolinka ! ” he replied deliberately, turning his head 
nervously to one side, and screwing up his eyes: “since I 
have given my w'ord not to hide an}' thing from you, you 


YOUTH. 


249 


have no cause to suspect me of seci’ecy. It is impossible to 
be always in the same mood ; and if any thing has disturbed 
me, I cannot even give an account of it to myself.” 

‘“What a wonderfull}" frank, honorable character!” I 
thought, and 1 said no more to liim. 

We drove to Dubkoft’s in silence. Dubkoff’s quarters were 
remarkably handsome, or seemed so to me then. There were 
rugs, pictures, curtains, colored hangings, portraits, curving 
armchairs everywhere : on the walls hung guns, pistols, to- 
bacco-pouches, and some heads of wild animals in cardboard. 
At the sight of this study, I saw whom Volodya had been 
imitating in the adornment of his own chamber. We found 
Volodya and Dubkoff playing cards. A gentleman who was 
a stranger to me (and who must have been of little impor- 
tance, judging from his humble attitude) was sitting at the 
table, and watching the game with great attention. Dubkorf 
had on a silk dressing-gown and soft shoes. Volodya in his 
shirt-sleeves w^as sitting opposite him on the sofa ; and judg- 
ing from his flushed face, and the dissatisfled, fleeting glance 
which he tore away from the cards for a moment to cast at 
us, he was very much absorbed in the game. On catching 
sight of me, he turned still redder. 

Come, it’s 3'our turn to deal,” he said to Dubkoff. I 
comprehended that it displeased him to have me know that 
he played cards. But there was no confusion discernible in 
his glance, which seemed to say to me, “Yes, I’m playing, 
and you are only surprised at it because vou are 3'oung yet. 
It is not only not bad, but even necessary, at our age.” 

I immediately felt and understood this. 

Dubkoff did not deal the cards, however, but rose, shook 
hands with us, gave us seats, and offered us pipes, which we 
declined. 

“ So this is our diplomat, the hero of the festival,” said 
Dubkoff. “ By heavens, he’s awfully like the colonel.” 

“ Hm ! ” I growled, as I felt that foolishly self-satisfled 
smile spreading ovei- my face. 

I respected Dubkoff as only a boy of sixteen can respect 
an adjutant of twenty-seven whom all the grown-u]) people 
declare to be a very flne young man, who dances beautifully, 
and talks French, and who, while he in his soul despises my 
youth, evidently strives to conceal the fact. 

But in spite of all my respect for him, I had always. Heaven 
knows why, during the whole period of our acquaintance, 


250 


YOUTH. 


found it difficult and awkward to look him in the eye. And 
I have since observed that there are three classes of people 
whom it is difficult for me to look in the eye, — those who are 
much worse than myself ; those who are much l)elter than 
myself ; and those with whom 1 cannot make up my mind to 
mention things that we both know, and who will not mention 
them to me. Possibly Dubkoff was better than I, perhaps he 
was worse : but one thing was certain, that he often lied, but 
without confessing it; that I detected this weakness in him, 
of course, but could not bring myself to speak of it. 

Let’s play one more game,” said Volodya, twisting his 
shoulders like papa, and shuffling the cards. 

“ How persistent he is I ” said Dubkoff. “ AVe’ll play it 
out later. Well, then, one. Hand them here.” 

While they played, I watched their hands. Volodya had 
a large, handsome hand. He separated his thumb and bent 
the othei’ lingers out when he held his cards, and it was so 
much like papa’s hand that at one time it really seemed to 
me that Volodya held his hands so on purpose, in order 
to resemble a grown-up person ; but, when I glanced at his 
face, it became immediate^’ evident that he was thinking of 
nothing except his game. Dubkoff’s hands, on the contrary, 
were small, plump, bent inwards, and had extremel}’ soft and 
skilful fingers ; just the kind of hands, in fact, which suit 
rings, and which belong to people who are inclined to man- 
ual labor, and are fond of having fine things. 

V^olodya must have lost ; for the gentleman who looked 
over his cards remarked that Vladimir Petrovitch had fright- 
fully bad luck ; and Dubkoff got his portfolio, and noted 
something down in it, and said, as he showed what he had 
written to Volodya, ‘‘ Is that right? ” 

“Yes,” said Volodya, glancing at the note-book with 
feigned abstraction. “Now let’s go.” 

Volodya drove Dubkoff, and Dmitri took me in his 
phaeton. 

“ What w^ere they playing?” I inquired of Dmitri. 

“Piquet. It’s a stupid game, and gambling is a stupid 
thing, any way.” 

“ Do they play for large sums? ” 

“ Not very ; but it’s not right, all the same.” 

“And do you not play? ” 

“No; I have given mv word not to; but Dubkoff can’t 
give his not to win all somebody’s mone}^ away.” 


YOUTH. 


251 


“ But that surely is not right on his part,” said I. “Volo- 
dya must play worse than he.” 

“Of course it’s not right ; but there’s nothing particularly 
wicked about it. ' Dubkolf loves to play, but still he’s an 
excellent fellow.” 

“ But 1 had no idea ” — said I. 

“ You must not think any ill of him, because he really is 
a very fine man ; and 1 am very fond of liim, and shall alwa 3 "S 
love him in spite of his weaknesses.” 

It seemed to me, for some reason, that, just because Dmi- 
tri stood u[) for Dubkoff with too much warmth, he no longer 
loved or respected him, but that he would not confess it, out 
of obstinacy, and in order that no one might reproach him 
with fickleness. He was one of those people who love their 
friends for life, not so much because the friends alwa^^s 
remain amiable towards them, as because, having once tnken 
a liking to a man, even bv mistake, they consider it dis- 
honorable to cease to like him. 


252 


YOUTH. 


CHAPTER XV. 

I KECEIVK CONGRATULATIONS. 

Hubkoff and Volodya knew all the people at Jahr’s by 
name ; and eveiy one, from porter to proprietor, showed 
them the greatest respect. We were immediately conducted 
to a private room, and served with a wonderful dinner, 
selected by Dubkoff from the French bill of fare. A bottle 
of cool cham[)agne, which I endeavored to survey with as 
much indifference as possible, was already preiiared. The 
dinner passed off very agreeably and meiTil3% although Dub- 
koff, as was his custom, related the strangest occurrences as 
though they were true, — among others, how his grandmother 
had shot three robbers, who had attacked her, with a blun- 
derbuss (whereupon I blushed, dro[)ped my eyes, and turm d 
away from him), — and although Volodya was visibly fright- 
ened every time that I undertook to say any thing (wliich 
was quite superfluous ; for I did not say any thing particu- 
larly disgraceful, so far as I can remember). When the 
champagne was served, all congratulated me. and I drunk 
through my hand ‘‘to thou” with Dubkoff and Dmitri, and 
exchanged kisses with them. As I did not know to whom 
the bottle of champagne l)elonged (it was in common, as 
they afterwards explained to me), and I wanted to entertain 
my fi’iends on my own money, wdiich I felt of incessantly 
in my pocket, I quietly got hold of a ten-ruble note ; and, 
summoning the waiter, I gave him the money, and told him 
in a whisper, but in such a manner that they all heard it, to 
please to brhig another small bottle of champagne. A'olo- 
dya turned red, writhed, and looked at me and the rest in 
affright; but the bottle was brought, and we drank it with 
the greatest satisfaction. Things continued to go merrily. 
Dubkoff lied without intermission ; and Volodya, too, told 
such funny stories, and told them better than I had ever 
expected of him ; and we laughed a great deal. The char- 


YOUTH. 


253 


acter of their wit — that is, Dubkoff’s and Volodya’s — • 
consisted in mimicry, and exaggeration of the well-known 
anecdote : ‘’‘•Well, hav^e 3011 been abroad? ” sa3's one. No, 
J have not,” replies the other, “but my brother plays on 
the violin.” The3’ had attained such perfection iu this sort 
of comic nonsense, that they even related that anecdote 
thus: “ JVIy brother never played on the violin either.” 
They replied to eveiy one of each other’s questions in this 
style; and sometimes they tried, without questions, to join 
two utterlv incongruous things, — talked this nonsense with 
sober faces, — and it proved extremely laughable. I began 
to understand the point, and 1 also tried to tell something 
funiyy but they all looked frightened, or tried not to look 
at me while 1 was s\)eaking, and the anecdote was not a 
success. Dubkoff said, “The diplomat has begun to lie, 
brother;” but 1 felt so well with the champagne I had 
drunk, and in the compan}^ of these grown-up people, that 
this remark hardl3^ wounded me at all. Dmitri alone, though 
he liad drunk evenly with us, continued in the stern, serious 
mood, which j^ut some restraint upon the general merriment. 

Now listen, gentlemen !” said Dubkoff. “After dinner, 
the diplomat must be taken in hand Shall we not go to our 
cnuiU.s ? We’ll soon settle him there.” 

“ Nekhliudoff won’t go,” said Volodya. 

“The intolerable goody! You’re an intolerable goody,” 
said Dubkoff, turning to him. “Come with us, and you’ll 
sec what a charming lady auntie is.” 

“ I not only will not go, but 1 w^on’t let him,” answered 
Dmitri, turning red. 

“Who? the diplomat? --Do you want to go, diplomat? 
Look, he beamed all over as soon as we mentioned auntie.” 

“ I don’t mean that I won’t let him,” continued Dmitri, 
rising from his seat, and beginning to pace the room, without 
looking at me, “but I do not advise him, nor wish him to 
go. He is no longer a child, and if he wishes he can go 
alone without 3^011. But you ought to be ashamed of your- 
self, Dubkoff ; \vhat you are doing is not right, and you want 
others to do so too.” 

“What’s the harm,” said Dubkoff, winking at Volod3’a, 
“ if I invite you all to my aunt’s for a cup of tea? Well, if 
it’s not agreeable to 3^011 to go with us, then Volodya and I 
will go. — Are 3-011 coming, Volodya? ” 

“ilm, hm!’’’ said Volodya, affirmatively. “We’ll go 


254 


YOUTH. 


there, and then we’ll come to my rooms, and go on with our 
piquet.” 

‘‘ Well, do you want to go with them, or not? ” said Dmitri, 
coming up to me. 

‘‘ No,” I answered, moving along on the sofa to make 
room for him beside me ; ‘‘ if you do not advise it, I will not 
go, on any account. 

“No,” I added afterwards; “I do not speak the truth 
when I say that 1 do not want to go with them ; but 1 am 
glad that I am not going.” 

“ Excellent,” said he : “ live according to ^^our own ideas, 
and don’t dance to any one’s pipe; that’s the best way of 
alb” 

This little dispute not only did not disturb our pleasure, 
but even heightened it. Dmitri all at once came into the 
gentle mood which 1 loved so well. ISuch an influence, as I 
afterwards more than once observed, did the consciousness 
of a good deed have upon him. He was pleased with him- 
self now for having deterred me from going. He grew very 
merry, oi'dered another bottle of champagne (which was 
against his rules), called a strange gentleman into the room, 
and began to give him wine, sang Gaudeanius igitur., 
requested that all should join in, and proposed to ride to the 
Sokolinki, whereupon Dubkotf remarked that it was too sen- 
timental. 

“ Let’s be jolly to-day,” said Dmitri, with a smile: “in 
honor of his entrance to the university, I will get drunk for 
the first time: so be it.” This gayety sat rather strangely 
on Dmitri. He I'esembled a tutor or a kind father who is 
satisfied with his children, and wishes to please them, and at 
the same time to show that he can be gay in an honorable 
and respectable fashion ; nevertheless, this unexpected mirth 
seemed to act infectiously upon us, the more so as each of us 
had drunk about half a bottle of champagne. 

It was in this agreeable frame of minci, that I stepped out 
into the public apartment to smoke a cigarette which Dubkoff 
had given me. 

When I rose from my seat, I perceived that my head was 
a little unsteady, and that my feet and my hands were in 
a natural condition only when 1 fixed my attention firmly 
upon them. Otherwise my feet crept off to one side, and my 
hands executed various gestures. I fixed my whole atten- 
tion upon these limbs, ordered my hands to rise, and button 


YOUTH. 


255 


my coat, and smooth my hair (in the course of which, my 
elbows jerked themselves np learfully high), and my legs to 
carry me to the door ; which command they complied with, 
but set themselves down either too hard or too gently, and 
the lelt foot in particular stood constantly on its toe. Some 
voice or other shouted to me, “ Where are you going? They 
are bringing lights.” I guessed that the voice belonged to 
Volodya, and the thought that I had guessed it afforded me 
satisfaction ; but 1 only smiled in answer, and went my way. 


256 


YOUTH. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

THE QUARREL. 

In the public room, behind a little table, sat a short, stout 
gentleman, in plain clothes, with a red mustache, engaged 
in eating. Beside him, sat a tall, dark-complexioned man, 
without a mustache. They were conversing in French. 
Their glances confused me, but I made up 1113^ mind to light 
my cigarette at the candle which stood before them. Glan- 
cing aside, in order that I might not encounter their gaze, I 
marched up to the table, and began to light my cigarette. 
'When the cigarette had caught the flame, I could not resist, 
and glanced at the gentleman who was dining. His gray 
e3’es were fixed intently and disapproving!}^ upon me. As I 
was about to turn away, his reel mustache moved, and he 
said in French, ‘‘ I don’t like to have people smoke while I 
am dining, 1113^ dear sir.” 

I muttered some unintelligilfle reply. 

“Yes, sir, I don’t like it,” went on the gentleman with 
the mustache sternly, with a quick glance at the gentleman 
who had no mustache, as if inviting him to admire the man- 
ner in which he was about to settle me, — “1 don’t like 
people who are impolite, m}^ dear sir, who come and smoke 
under one’s nose; I don’t like them.” I immediatel}^ saw 
that the gentleman was scolding me, and it seemed to me at 
flrtst that I was veiy much in the wrong, with regard to him. 

“ I did not think that it would disturb 3^011,” said I. 

“Ah, von did not think you were ill-bred, but I did ! ” 
shouted the gentleman. 

“ What right have you to yell?” said I, feeling that he 
was insulting me, and beginning to get angry myself. 

“ This right, that I never ])ermit any one to be insolent to 
me; and I shall always give such young fellows as you a 
lesson. What’s 3'our surname, sir? and where do you 
live?” 


YOUTH. 


257 


I was extremely angry, my li[)s quivered, and ray breath 
came in gasps. But 1 felt that I was in the wrong, never- 
theless, and it must have been because I had drunk so much 
champagne ; and I did not say any thing insulting to the 
gentleman, but on the contrary my lips uttered my name and 
our address in the most submissive manner possible. 

“ M}’ name is Kolpikoff, nn' dear sir, and see that you are 
more courteous in future. You shall hear from me,” he 
concluded, the whole conversation having taken place in 
French. 

I only said, “ I am very glad to make your acquaintance,” 
endeavoring to render my voice as firm as possible, turned 
away, and went back to our room with my cigarette, which 
had contrived to go out. 

1 did not mention what had occurred to my brother, nor to 
my friend, particularly as they were engaged in a hot dispute, 
but seated myself alone in a corner to reflect upon this 
strange circumstance. The words, “You are ill-bred, sir,” 
as they rang in my ears, troubled me more and more. My 
intoxication had completely passed away. When I reflected 
on my behavior in the matter, the strange thought all at once 
occurred to me that I had behaved like a coward. “ What 
right had he to attack me? Why didn’t he say simply that 
it disturbed him? He must have been in the wrong. Why, 
when he told me that I was ill-bred, did 1 not say to him, ‘ He 
is ill-bred, sir, who permits himself impertinences ; ’ or why 
did I not simply shout at him, '-Silence!’ that would have 
been capital. Why did I not challenge him to a duel? No, 
I did none of these things, but swallowed the insult like a vile 
coward.” “ You are ill-bred, sir,” rang in my ears inces- 
santly in an exasperating way. “ No, this cannot be left in 
this state,” I thought, and I rose with the fixed intention of 
g(hng back to the gentleman, and saying something dreadful 
to him, and, possibly, of striking him over the head with the 
candlestick if it should seem suitable. I reflected upon this 
last intention with the greatest delight, but it was not without 
great terror that I entered the public room again. Fortu- 
nately, Gospodin (Mr.) Kolpikoff was no longer there ; there 
was but one waiter in the room, and he was clearing the 
table. I wanted to tell the waiter what had happened, and 
to explain to him that I was not at all to blame ; but I 
changed my mind for some reason or other, and returned 
again to our own room in the most gloomy frame of ini^- ’ 


258 


TO UTIL 


“What’s the matter with our diplomat?” said DubkofT, 
“ he’s probably deciding the fate of Europe now.” 

“Oh, let me alone,” I said crossly, as I turned away. 
Then, as 1 wandered about the room, 1 began to think, for 
some reason, that Dubkotf was not a nice man at all. And 
as for his eternal jests, and that nickname of “diplomat,” 
there was nothing amiable about them. All he was good 
for was to win money from Volodya, and to go to some 
aunt or other. And there was nothing pleasing about him. 
Every thing he said was a lie, or an absurdit}', and he wanted 
to laugh eternally. It seemed to me that he was only stupid, 
and a bad man to boot. In such reflections as these I spent 
five minutes, feeling more and more inimical towards I)ub- 
koff. But Dubkoft' paid no attention to me, and this enraged 
me still more. I even got angry with Volodya and Dmitri 
because the}' talked to him. 

“Do you know what, gentlemen? we must pour some 
water over the diplomat,” said Dubkoft suddenly, glancing 
at me with what seemed to me to be a mocking, and even 
treacherous, smile: “ he’s in a bad way. By heavens, but 
he’s in a state ! ” 

“ You need to be ducked, you’re in a bad way yourself,” 
I retorted with an angry smile, even forgetting that I had 
addressed him as tho^i. 

This answer must have amazed Dubkoft; but he turned 
away from me indiffeiently, and continued his conversation 
with Volodya and Dmitri. 

I would have tried to join the conversation, but I felt that 
I certainly should not be able to dissemble, and I again re- 
treated to my corner, where I remained until our departure. 

AVhen we had paid the bill, and were putting on our over- 
coats, Dubkoff said to Dmitri, “ Well, where are Orestes and 
Pylades going? Home, probably, to converse of love. We’ll 
find out about the same thing from our dear auntie : it’s 
better than your sour friendship.” 

“How dare you talk so, and ridicule ns?” I said, sud- 
denly, marching up to him and gesticulating. “ How dare 
you laugh at feelings that you don’t understand? I wont 
permit it. Silence ! ” I shouted, and became silent myself^ 
not knowing what to say, and panting with agitation. Dub- 
koff was amazed at first ; then he tried to smile, and took it 
as a joke ; but fiimlly, to my extreme surprise, ho got fright- 
ened, and dropped his eyes- 


YOUTH. 259 

“ I am not ridiciilino^ 3^11 and 3miir feelings in tlie least: 
it’s only my way of talking,” he said evasively. 

So that’s it,” I shouted; but at the same time I was 
ashamed of myself, and sorry for Dnbkotf, whose handsome, 
troubled face betrayed genuine sntfering. 

What’s the matter with yon? ” asked Volodya and Dmi- 
tri together. Nobody meant to insult 3mu.” 

“ Yes, he did mean to insult me.” 

“ That brother of 3^onrs is a sanc}’ gentleman,” said Dnb- 
koff, just as he went out of the door, so that he could not 
hear what I might say. 

Possibly, I might have rushed after him, and uttered some 
more imi)ertinent speeches ; but, just at that moment, the 
same waiter who had been present at my atfair with Kol- 
pikoff handed me my coat, and I immediately calmed down, 
feigning only so mnch anger in Dmitri’s presence as was 
indispensable, in order that my instantaneous tranquillity 
might not seem queer. The next day, Dubkoff and I met in 
Volodya’s room. We did not allude to this affair, and con- 
tinued to address each other as and it was more 

difficult than ever for us to look each other in the eye. 

The memory of my quarrel with Kolpikoff, who neither on 
that day nor ever afterwards let me “ hear from him,” was 
frightfully oi)pressive and vivid for mau}^ years. I writhed 
and screamed, full five 3mars later, every time that I recalled 
that unatoned insult ; and comforted myself by remembering, 
with self-satisfaction, how manly I had afterwards been in 
m3" affair with Dubkoff. It was only veiy much later that I 
began to regard tlie matter in quite a different light, and to 
recall m3" quarrel with Koli)ikoff with comical satisfaction, 
and to repent of the undeserved wound which 1 had dealt 
to that good little fellow^ Dul)koff. 

When I related to Dmitri that same da3" m3" encounter with 
Kolpikoff, whose appearance I described to him minutel3", he 
was veiy much surprised. 

‘‘Yes, it’s the very same fellow,” said he. “Just imagine ! 
that Kolpikoff is a well-known scamp, a card-sharper, but, 
most of all, a cosvard, who was driven out of the regiment 
by his comrades because he had received a box on tire ear, 
and w'ould not fight. Where did he get his valor?” he 
added, with a kindly smile, as he glanced at me. “So he 
didn’t say any thing more than ‘ ill-bred ’ ? ” 

“ Yes,” I replied, reddening. 


2G0 


YOUTH. 


“It’sl:)acl; but there’s no harm done yet,” Dmitri said, 
to console me. 

It was only when I thought this affair over quietly, long 
afterwards, that I arrived at the tolerabl}' probable inference 
that Kolpikoft’, feeling, after the lapse of many years, that 
he could attack me, had taken his revenge on me, in the 
presence of the beardless, dark-complexioned man, for the 
box on the ear which he had once received, just as 1 imme- 
diately revenged myself for his “ill-bred” on the innocent 
Dubkoff. 


YOUTH. 


201 


CHAPTER XVII. 

I MAKE PREPARATIONS TO PAY SOME CALLS. 

My first thought, on waking the next clay, was iny adven- 
ture with Kolpikoff. Again I roared and ran about the 
room, but there was nothing to be done: besides, this was 
the last day I was to spend in Moscow ; and, by papa’s 
orders, I was to make some calls which he had himself writ- 
ten down for me. Papa’s solicitude for us was not so much 
on the point of morals and learning as on that of worldly 
connections. On the paper was written in his rapid, pointed 
hand: “ (1) To Prince Ivan Ivanitch without fail; (2) to 
the Ivins (3) to Prince Mikhailo ; (4) to Prin- 

cess Nekhliudolf and Madame Valakhina if possible; ” and, 
of course, to the curator, the rector, and the professors. 

Dmitri dissuaded me from paying these last calls, saying 
that it not only was not necessary, but would even be 
improper ; but all the rest must be made to-day. Of these, 
the two first calls, beside which ivitliout fail was written, 
frightened me particularly. Prince Ivan Ivanitch was gen- 
eral-in-chief, an old man, wealthy and alone ; so I, a stu- 
dent of sixteen, must have direct intercourse with him, which 
I had a presentiment could not prove at all flattering to me. ^ 
The Ivins also were wealthy, and their father was an impor- 
tant civil general, who had only been to our home once, in ' 
gTandmamma’s day. After grandmamma’s death, I observed 
tliat the 3 a)ungest Ivin avoided us, and seemed to put on airs* 
The eldest, as I knew liy reiiort, had already com[)leted his ^ 
course in law, and was serving in Petersburg ; tlie seeond, 
(Sergiei), whom I had once adored, was also in Petersburg, 

— a big, fat cadet in the Pages’ Corps. In my youth, I not 
only did not like to associate with people who considered 
themselves above me, but such intercourse was intolerably 
painful, in consequence of a constant fear of insult, and the 


262 


YOUTH. 


straining of all my mental faculties to the end of exhibiting 
my independence. But, as I was not going to obey papa’s 
last orders, I must smoothe matters over by complying with 
the first. I paced my chamber, glancing at my clothes, 
which were spread out upon the chairs, at my dagger and 
hat, and was already preparing to go, when old Grap came 
with his congratulations, bringing Ilinka with him. Father 
Grap was a Russianized German, intolerably mawkish and 
flattering, and very often intoxicated. He generally came 
to us simply for the purpose of asking for something ; and 
papa sometimes let him sit down in his study, but he never 
had him dine with us. His humility and persistent begging 
were so intermingled with a certain superficial good-nature 
and familiarity with our house, that everybody reckoned it 
as a sort of merit in him that he should be so attached to all 
of us ; but, for some reason, I never liked him, and, when 
he spoke, I always felt ashamed for him. 

1 was veiy much displeased at the arrival of these guests, 
and I made no effort to conceal my displeasure. I had be- 
come so accustomed to look down upon Ilinka, and had 
become so used to consider that we were in the right in so 
doing, that it was rather disagreeable for me to have him a 
student as well as myself. It struck me, too, that he was 
rather abashed, in my presence, by this equality. I greeted 
them coldly, and did not ask them to sit down, l)ecause 1 was 
ashamed to do so, thinking that they might do it without 
my invitation ; and I ordered my carriage to be got ready. 
Ilinka was a kind, very honorable, and very clever young 
man, but he was still what is called a man of caprice. 
Some extreme mood was always coming over him, and, as 
it appeared, without any reason whatever : now it w'as a 
w’eeping mood, then an inclination to laugh, then to take 
offence at every trifle. And now, it seemed, he w’as in this 
last frame of mind. He said nothing, glanced angrily at 
me and his father ; and only wdien he was addressed did he 
smile, with the siil)missive, constrained smile, under wiiich 
lie was already accustomed to hide his feelings, and espe- 
cially the feeling of shame for his father, wiiich he could not 
help feeling in our presence. 

‘‘ So, sir, Nikolai Petrovitch,” said the old man. follow- 
ing me about the room while I dressed, and turning the silver 
snuff-box, which grandmamma had given him, slowly and 
respectfully between his fat fingers ; “as soon as I learned 


YOUTH. 


263 


from my son that yon had deigned to pass an excellent 
examination, — for yonr cleverness is known to all, — I im- 
mediately hastened hither to congratulate you, batiuschka ; 
why, 1 have carried you on my shouldei-, and God sees that 
I love you all like relatives ; and my Ilinka is alwa3"s beg- 
ging to be allowed to come to you. He, too, has already 
become accustomed to ^'ou.” 

Meantime, Ilinka sat in silence, by the window, apparently 
gazing at m}’^ three-cornered hat, and muttering something 
angrily, and almost inaudibly. 

“ Now, I wanted to ask 3*011, Nikolai Petrovitch,” contin- 
ued the old man, “ did m3" Ilinka pass a good examination? 
He said he should be with you, and 3*011 would not leave 
him ; 3"ou would look after him, and advise him.” 

“ Why, he passed a veiy fine one,” I replied, glancing at 
Ilinka, who, feeling my glance, blushed, and stopped moving 
his lips. 

“ And can he pass the day with 3"ou? ” said the old man, 
with a timid smile, as though he were very much afraid of 
me, and always standing so close to me, whenever I halted, 
that the odor of wine and tobacco, in which he was steeped, 
did not cease for a single second to be perceptible to me. I 
was provoked at him for having placed me in such a false 
position towards his son, and because he had diverted my 
attention from 1113* very important occu[)ation at that moment 
— dressing ; but most of all, that ever-present odor of strong 
brandy so distracted me, that I said, veiy coldly, that I 
could not remain with Ilinka, because 1 ‘should not be at 
home all da3". 

“ You wanted to go to 3"our sister, batiuschka,” said 
Ilinka, smiling, but not looking at me; “and I have some- 
thing to do besides.” I was still more vexed and mortified, 
and, in order to smooth over my refusal I hastened to im- 
part the information, that I should not be at home because I 
must go to Prince Ivan Ivanitch, and Princess Kornakova, 
and to Ivin, the one who held such an important post, and 
that I should probably dine with Princess Nekhliudova. It 
seemed to me that when they learned to what distinguished 
houses I was going, they could make no more claims upon 
me. When they prepared to depart, I invited Ilinka to come 
again ; but Ilinka only muttered something, and smiled with 
a constrained expression. It was evident that his feet would 
never cross my threshold again. 


264 


Tourn. 


After their departure, I set out on my visits. Volodya, 
whom 1 had that morning invited to accompany me, in order 
that it might not be as awkward as if 1 were alone, had 
refused, under the pretext that it would be too sentimental 
for two hroiliers to ride together in one carriage. 


YOUTH. 


265 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

THE VALAKIIINS. 

So I set out alone. My first visit, in point of locality, 
was to the Valakhins, in the Sivtzavoi Vrazhok. I had not 
seen Sonitchka for three years, and of course my love for 
her had vanished long ago ; but a lively and touching mem- 
ory of that past childish love still lingered in my soul. It 
had happened to me, in the course of those three years, to 
recall her with such force and clearness, that I shed tears, 
and felt myself in love again ; but this only lasted a few 
minutes, and did not speedily return. 

I knew that Sonitchka had been abroad with her mother, 
where they had remained for two years, and where, it was 
said, they had been upset in a diligence, and Sonitchka’s 
face had been badly cut with the glass, so that she had lost 
her good looks to a great extent. On my wa}" thither, I 
vividly recalled the former Sonitchka, and thought of how 
I should meet her now. In consequence of her two 3’ears’ 
stay abroad I fancied her extremely tall, with a veiy fine 
figure, serious and dignified, but remarkably attractive. My 
imagination refused to present her with a face disfigured 
with scars : on the contrary, having heard somewhere of the 
passionate lover who remained faithful to the beloved object, 
in spite of disfigurement by small-jiox, I tried to think that 
I was in love with Sonitchka, in order that I might have the 
merit of remaining true to her in spite of the scars. On the 
whole, when I drove up to the Valakhins’ house I was not 
in love, but having set in motion old memories of love I 
was well prepared to fall in love, and was very desirous to 
do so ; the more so as I had long felt ashamed when I looked 
at all my enamoured friends, because I had left the ranks. 

The Valakhins lived in a neat little wooden house, the 
entrance to wliich was from the court-^^ard. The door was 
opened to me at the sound of the bell, which was then a great 


266 


YOUTH. 


rarity in Moscow, by a very small and neatly dressed boy. 
He either did not understand me, or did not want to tell me 
if the family were at home ; and leaving me in the dark ves- 
tibule, he ran into the still darker corridor. 

I remained alone for quite a while in that dark room, in 
which there was one closed door, besides the one leading to 
the corridor ; and I wondered partly at the gloomy character 
of the house, and in part supposed that it must be so with 
people who had been abroad. After the lapse of five minutes 
the door to the hall was opened from the inside by the same 
boy, and he led me to the neatly but not richly furnished 
drawdng-room, into which Sonitchka followed me. 

vShe was seventeen. She was very short in stature, very 
thin, and with a yellowish, unhealthy color in her face. 
There were no scars visible on her face ; but her charming, 
prominent eyes, and her bright, good-natured, merry smile 
were the same which I had known and loved in my childhood. 
I had not expected to find her like this at all, and therefore 
1 could not at once pour out upon her the feeling which I had 
prepared on the way. She gave me her hand in the English 
fashion, which was then as much of a rarity as the bell, shook 
my hand frankly, and seated me beside her on the sofa. 

“ Ah, how glad T am to see you, m3' dear Nicolas ! ” she 
said, gazing into my face with the same genuine expression 
of pleasure which her words implied. The “my dear Nico- 
las,” I observed, was uttered in a friendly, not in a patron- 
izing, tone. To my amazement, she was more simple, sweet, 
and natural in her manner after her trip abroad than before. 
I observed two little scars near her nose, and on her fore- 
head ; but her wonderful eyes and smile were perfectly true 
to my recollections, and shone in the old way. 

“ How 3'ou have changed!” said she: “3^011 have quite 
grown iq). AVell, and I — what do you think of me? ” 

“ Ah, I should not have known you,” I answered, although 
at that veiy time I was thinking that I should have known 
her anywhere. I again felt myself in that care-free, merry 
mood in which, five years before, 1 had daneed the “ grand- 
father” with her at grandmamma’s ball. 

“What, have I grown very ugly?” she asked, shaking 
her head. 

“No, not at all ; 3'ou have grown some, 3^011 are older,” 
I made haste to reply: “but on the contrary — and 
even ” — 


YOUTH. 


267 


*‘Well, no matter: I remember our dances, onr games, 
St. Jerome, Mme. Dorat.” (I did not recollect an}' Mine. 
Dorat : she was evidently carried away by the enjo 3 'ment of 
her childish memories, and was confounding them.) “Ah, 
that was a famous time ! ’’ she continued ; and the same smile, 
even more beautiful than the one I bore in my memory, and 
the very same eyes, gleamed before me. While she was 
speaking 1 had succeeded in realizing the situation in which 
I found myself at the present moment, and 1 decided that at 
the present moment 1 was in love. As soon as I had made 
up my mind to this, that instant my happy, careless mood 
vanished, a dark cloud enveloped every thing before me, — ■ 
even her eyes and smile, — 1 became ashamed of something, 
I turned red, and lost all power to speak. 

“Times are different now,” she went on with a sigh, ele- 
vating her brows slightly: “ every thing is much worse, and 
we are worse ; are we not, Nicolas? ” 

I could not answer, and gazed at her in silence. 

“Where are all the Ivins and Kornakofis of those days? 
Do you remember?” she continued, looking at my red and 
frightened face with some curiosity: “that was a famous 
time ! ” 

And still I could not reph’. 

The entrance of the elder Valakhina relieved me of this 
uncomfortable situation for a time. I rose, bowed, and re- 
covered my power of speech ; but in turn, a strange change 
came over Soiiitchka with her mother’s entrance. All her 
gayety and naturalness suddenly disappeared, her very smile 
was different ; and all at once, with the exception of her tall 
stature, she became exactly the young lady returned from 
abroad which I had imagined her to be. It seemed as though 
this change could have no cause, since her mother smiled 
just as pleasantly, and all her movements expressed as much 
gentleness, as of old. The Valakhina^ seated herself in a 
large arm-chair, and indicated to me a place near her. She 
said something to her daughter in English, and Soiiitchka 
immediately left the room, which afforded me some relief. 
The Valakhina inquired after my relatives, my brother, and 
my father, and then spoke to me of her own sorrow, — the 
loss of her husband, — and finally, feeling that there was 

1 A lady’s surname is not infrequently used thus, without prefix. The feminine 
form has been used throughout, in iireference to the masculine form with the prefix 
of “ .Madame” (as Mine. V'alakhiu, Koruakoft’, etc.), for the sake of illusiratiujf this 
point. — Tr. 


268 


YOUTH. 


nothing to say to me, she looked at me in silence, as if to 
say, “If you will rise now, and make your bow, and go 
away, you will be doing very well, my dear fellow.” But a 
strange thing happened to me. Sonitchka had returned 
with her work, and seated herself in the corner of the room, 
so that I felt her glance fixed upon me. While the Vala- 
khiua w^as relating the loss of her husband, I once more re- 
membered that I was in love, and thought that perluips the 
mother guessed it ; and I had another lit of shyness of such 
power that 1 did not find mj'self in a condition to move even a 
single limb in a natural manner. 1 knew that in order to rise 
and take my departure, I should be obliged to think where to 
set my foot, wdiat to do with my head, what with my hand : 
in one word, I felt almost exactly as I had felt the evening 
before after drinking half a bottle of champagno. 1 had a 
presentiment that I could not get through with all this, and 
therefore could not rise ; and I actually could not. The Val- 
akhina was probably surprised when she beheld my face, as 
red as cloth, and my utter immovability ; but I decided that 
it was better to sit still in that stupid attitude than to risk 
rising in an awkw'ard manner, and taking my departure. I 
sat thus for quite a long time, expecting that some unfore- 
seen circumstance would rescue me from ihat position. This 
circumstance presented itself in the person of an insignifi- 
cant young man, who entered the room with the air of a 
member of the famil}^, and bowed courteously to me. The 
Valakhina rose, excusing herself on the ground that it was 
necessary for her to speak with her business manager, and 
looked at me with an expression of surprise which said, “ If 
you want to sit there forever, I will not drive you out.” I 
made a tremendous effort, and rose, but was no longer in a 
condition to make a bow^ ; and as I w^ent out, accompanied by 
the compassionate glances of mother and daughter, I knocked 
against a chair which did not stand in my wa}’ at all ; I only 
ran against it because my whole attention was directed upon 
not stumbling over the carjiet which w^as under my feet. 
But once in the open air, — where I writhed and growled so 
loudly that even Kuzma Inquired several times, “ What is 
your wish?” — this feeling disappeared; and I began to 
meditate quite calmly upon my love for Sonitchka, and her 
relation with her mother, which struck me as singular. 
When I afterward communicated my oliservations to my 
father, — that Mine. Valakhina and her daughter were not on 
good terms, — he said : 


YOUTH. 


269 


“Yes, she torments her, poor thiug, with her strange 
miserliness ; and it’s odd enough,” he added, with a stronger 
feeling than he could have for a mere relative. “How charm- • 
ing she was, the dear, queer woman ! I cannot understand 
why she is so changed. You did not see any secretary 
there, did you? What sort of a fashion is it for Russian 
ladies to have secretaries?” he said angrily, walking away 
from me. 

“ I did see him,” said I. 

“ AVell, he is good-looking at least? ” 

“No, he is not at all good-looking.” 

“ It’s incomprehensible,” said papa, and he twitched his 
shoulders angrily and coughed. 

“ Here I am in love, too,” I thought as I rode on in my 
drozhky. 


270 


YOUTH. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

THE KORNAKOFS. 

The second call on my way was on the Kornakoffs. They 
liv^ed on the first floor of a great house on the Arbata. The 
staircase was very showy and clean, but not luxurious. 
Everywhere there was striped crash fastened directly on the 
stairs b}^ rails of polished copper ; but there were neither 
flowers nor mirrors. The hall, over whose brightly polished 
floor I passed to reach the drawing-room, was also forbidding, 
cold, and neatly arranged ; every thing shone, and seemed 
durable, although not at all new ; but neither pictures, cur- 
tains, nor any other species of adornment were anywhere 
visible. Several Princesses were in the drawing-room. They 
were sitting in such a precise and leisurely attitude that it 
was immediatel}" perceptible that they did not sit so when 
guests were not present. 

“Mamma will be here immediately,” said the eldest of 
them to me, as she seated herself nearer me. For a quarter 
of an hour, this Princess engaged me in a very easy conver- 
sation, and she did it so skilfully that the conversation never 
languished for a moment. But it was too evident that she 
was entertaining me, and therefore she did not please me. 
Among other things, she told me that her brother Stepan, 
whom they called Etienne^ and who had been sent to the 
Junkers’ School, had already been promoted to be an officer. 
When she spoke of her brother, and especially when she 
mentioned that he had entered the hussars against his moth- 
er’s Avish, she put on a frightened look ; and all the Prin- 
cesses, who sat there in silence, put on the same frightened 
faces. When she spoke of grandmamma’s death, she put 
on a sorrowful look, and all the younger Princesses did the 
same. When she recalled how 1 had struck St. Jerome, and 
how I had been led off, she laughed, and showed her bad 
teeth ; and all the Princesses laughed, and showed their 
bad teeth. 


YOUTH. 


271 


The Princess entered. She was t^e same little dried-up 
woman, with restless eyes, and a hal.'it of looking at other 
people while talking with one. She took me by "the hand, 
and raised her hand to my lips, in order that 1 might kiss it ; 
wliich 1 should not otherwise have done, not supposing that 
it was indispensable. 

“How glad I am to see you!” she said, with her usual 
eloquence, glancing at her daughters. “Ah, how like his 
mamma he is! Is he not, Lise?” 

Lise said that it was so ; though I know, for a fact, that I 
possessed not the slightest resemblance to mamma. 

“And how large you have grown ! And my Etienne, you 
remember, he is your second cousin — no, not your second ; 
but how is it, Lise? My mother was Varvara Dmitrievna, 
daughter of Dmitri Nikolaevitch, and your grandmother was 
Natalya Nikolaevitch.” 

“Then he is our third cousin, mamma,” said the eldest 
Princess, 

“Oh, 3’ou are mixing things all up,” cried the Princess 
angrily. “ It’s not third cousin at all, but issas de geniKiins, 
— children of cousins; that’s what 3^011 and my dear little 
Etienne are. He’s an officer already: did 3^11 know it? 
But it’s not w^ell in one respect: he has too much libert3\ 
You young people must be kept in hand ; that’s how it 
is ! You will not be angr3" with me, 3'our old aunt, if I tell 
you the truth? I brought up Etienne strictly, and I think 
that’s the proper wiiy to do. 

“ Yes, that’s the relationship between us,” she went on. 
“ Prince Ivan Ivanitch was m3' own uncle, and 3'our mother’s 
uncle. . So we were cousins to 3'our mamma, and not second 
cousins. Yes, that’s it. Now, tell me. Have you been 
to Prince Ivan’s?” 

I said that 1 had not been there 3mt, but should go that 
day. 

“Ah! how is that possible?” she exclaimed. “That 
should have been your very first call. Why, you know that 
Prince Ivan is just the same as a father to you. He has no 
children, so his only heirs are you and my children. You 
must revere him on account of his age, and his position in 
the world, and every thing. 1 know that you young people 
of the present generation think nothing of relationship, and 
do not like old people ; but you must obey me, ycmr old 
aunt ; for 1 love you, and 1 loved your mamma, and 3'our 


272 


YOUTH. 


grandmother, too, I loved and respected very, very much. 
Yes, you must go without fail. You certainly* must go.” 

I said that 1 certainl}^ would go, and as tlie call had already 
lasted long enough, in my opinion, 1 rose, and made a mo- 
tion to go ; but she detained me. 

“ No, wait a minute. — AYhere is j^our father, Lise? Call 
him here. — He will be so glad to see you,” she continued, 
turning to me. 

In a couple of minutes Prince Mikhailo actually entered. 
He wms a short, stout man, very negligently dressed, un- 
shaven, and with such an expression of indifference on his 
countenance that it approached stupidity. He was not at all 
glad to see me ; at all events, he did not express any thing 
of the sort. But the Princess, of whom he was evidently 
very much afraid, said to him, — 

“ AYaldemar [she had plainly forgotten my name] is 
very like his mother, is he not?” and she made such a sig- 
nal with her eyes that the Prince must have divined her wish, 
for he came up to me, and, with the most apathetic and even 
dissatisfied expression of countenance, presented his unshaven 
cheek to me, which 1 was forced to kiss. 

“ But you are not dressed, and you must go instantly,” the 
Princess began at once to say to him, in an angiy tone, 
which was evidently her usual one with members of her 
household. “ You want to prejudice people against j’ou 
again, to make people angry with you again ! ” 

“ 7^t once, at once, matiuschka,” said Prince Mikhailo, 
and departed. I bowed, and departed also. 

I had heard for the first time that we were heirs of Prince 
Ivan Ivanitch, and this news struck me unpleasantly. 


YOUTU. 


273 


CHAPTER XX. 

THE IVINS. 

It distressed me still more to think of that impending, 
indispensable visit. But before I went to the Prince. I had 
to stop at the Ivins’ on the way. Phey lived on the Tversky 
Boulevard, in a large and handsome house. It was not with- 
out timidity that I drove up to the state entrance, at vrhich 
stood a porter with a cane. 

I asked him if the family was at home. 

“ Whom do you wish to see? The general’s son is at 
home,” said the porter. 

‘‘ And the general himself? ” 

“ I will inquire. Whom shall I announce? ” said the por- 
ter, and rang. 

A footman’s feet, clad in gaiters, appeared upon the 
stairs. I was so much alarmed, I do not know m3^self 
that I told the footman that he was not to announce me to 
the general, and that I would go first to the general’s son. 
When I went up -stairs, along that great staircase, it seemed 
to me- that I became frighfully small (and not in the fig- 
urative; but in the actual, sense of the word). I had expe- 
rienced the same sensation when m3' drozhky drove np to the 
grand entrance ; it had seemed to me that the drozhky and 
the horse and the coachman became small. The general’s 
son was lying, fast asleep, upon a sofa, with an open book 
before him, when I entered the room. Ilis tutor, Herr Frost, 
wlio still remained in the house, followed me into the room, 
with his active step, and woke up his pupil. Ivin did not 
exhibit any especial delight at the sight of me, and I observed 
that he looked at my eyebrows while lie was talking. Al- 
though he was very polite, it seemed to me that lie was enter- 
taining me exactly as the Princess had done, and tlnit he felt 
no jiarticular attraction towards me, and did not need my ac- 
quaintance, since he probably had his own different circle of 


274 


YOUTH. 


acquaintances. All this I imagined, principally because he 
gazed at my eyebrows. In a word, his relations to me, 
however disagreeable it might be to me to confess it, were 
almost exactly the same as mine to Ilinka. I began to get 
irritated ; I caught every look of Ivin’s on the fly, and 
when his eyes and Frost’s met, I translated his question : 
“ And why has he come to us? ” 

After talking with me for a short time, Ivin said that his 
father and mother were at home, and would 1 not like to 
have him go with me to them ? 

“I will dress myself at once,” he added, going into 
another room, although he was very well dressed in this 
room, — in a new coat and a white waistcoat. In a few 
minutes he came back in his uniform, completely buttoned 
up, and we went down-stairs together. The state apartments 
which we passed through were extremely lofty, and appar- 
ently very richly furnished there was marble and gilding, 
and something wrapped up in muslin, and mirrors. The 
Ivina entered the small room behind the drawing-room 
through another door, at tlie same time that w^e did. She 
received me in a very friendly manner, like a relative, gave 
me a seat beside her, and inquired with interest about all 
our family. 

Mine. Ivina, of whom I had only caught a couple of fleet- 
ing glimpses previous to this, pleased me very much now 
that I looked at her attentively. She was tall, thin, very 
white, and seemed alw^ays melancholy and exhausted. Her 
smile was sad, but extremely kind ; her eyes were large, 
weary, and not quite straight, which gave her a still more 
melancholy and attractive expression. She did not sit ex- 
actly bent over, but with her whole body limp, and all her 
movements were languishing. She spoke languidly, but the 
sound of her voice, and her indistinct utterance of r and 
were very pleasing. She did not enteitain me. My answers 
about my relatives evidently afforded her a melancholy inter- 
est, as though, while listening to me, she. sadly i-ecalled 
better days. Her son went off somewhei-e ; she gazed at 
me in silence for a couple of minutes, and all at once she 
began to cry. I sat there before her, and could not think of 
any thing whatever to say or do. She went on crying, and 
never looked at me. At first I was sorry for her ; then I 
thought, “ Ought I not to comfort her, and how must it be 
done?” and finally I became vexed at her, for placing me 


YOUTH. 


275 


in sncli an awkward position. “ Have I such a pitiful ap- 
pearance? ” I thought, “• or is she doing this on purpose to 
lind out how I will behave under the circumstances? ” 

“■ It is awkward to take leave now, it will seem as though 
I am running away from her tears,.” I continued my retlec- 
tions. I moved about on my chair to remind her of my 
presence. 

‘‘Oh, how stupid I am! ” she said, glancing at me, and 
trying to smile; ‘‘there are days when one weeps without 
any cause whatever.” 

She began to search for her handkerchief, beside her on 
the sofa, and all at once she broke out crying harder than 
ever. 

“ Ah, my heavens 1 how ridiculous it is for me to cry so 1 
I loved your mother so, we were such — friends — and” — 

She found her handkerchief, covered her face with it, and 
went on crying. My awkward position was renewed, and 
lasted for quite a long while. Her tears seemed genuine, and I 
kept thinking that she w^as not weeping so much because 
of my mother, as because things did not suit her now, but 
had been much better at some time in former days. 1 do 
not know how it would have ended, had not young Ivin en- 
tered and said that old Ivin was asking for her. She rose, 
and was on the point of going, when Ivin himself entered the 
room. He was a small, stout, gray-haired gentleman, with 
thick black brows, perfectly gray close- cut hair, and an ex- 
tremely stern and firm expression of countenance. 

I rose and saluted him ; but Ivin, who had three stars on 
his green coat, not only did not respond to my greeting, but 
hardly so much as glanced at me, so that I all at once felt 
that I was not a man, but some sort of thing which was not 
worthy of notice, — an armchair or a window, or, if a man, 
then such a one as is not distinguished in any way from an 
armcliair or a window. 

“ You haven’t written to the Countess yet, my dear,” he 
said to his wife in French, with an apathetic but firm expres- 
sion of countenance. 

“ Farewell, Mr. Irtenetf,” said ]Mme. Ivina to me, inclining 
her head rather haughtily all at once, and gazing at my eye- 
brows as her son had done. I bowed once more to her and 
her husband, and again my salute acted upon the elder Ivin 
exactly as the opening or shutting of a window would have 
done. But Ivin the student accompanied me to the door, 


276 


YOUTH. 


and told me on the way that he was going to be transferred 
to the Petersburg university, because his father had received 
an appointment there (and he mentioned a very important 
position) . 

“Well, as papa likes-,” I muttered to myself as I seated 
m3’self in my drozhky : “ but my feet will never enter here 
again. That bawler cries when she looks at m^, just as though 
1 were some miserable creature ; and Ivin is a pig, and doesn’t 
bow to me. I’ll give him” — what 1 wmnted to give him, 
1 really do not know, but that was the word which occurred 
to me. 

1 was often obliged afterwards to endure my father’s exhor- 
tations, and he said that it was indispensable to cultivate^* 
this acquaintance, and that I could not require a man in such 
a position as Ivin’s to pa\’ attention to such a bo}' as I ; but 
I preserved my resolution for a long time. 


YOUTU. 


Til 


CHAPTER XXI. 

PRINCE IVAN IVANITCH. 

“ Now for the last call on the Nikitskaya,” I said to Kuz- 
ma, and we rolled away to Prince Ivan Ivanitch’s house. 

After having gone through several calling experiences, I 
had acquired self-reliance by practice ; and now 1 was about 
to drive up to the Prince’s in a tolerably composed frame of 
mind, when 1 suddenly recalled the words of Princess Korna- 
kova, to the effect that I was his heir ; moreover, I beheld 
two equipages at the entrance, and 1 felt m3’ former timidity 
again. 

It seemed to me that the old porter who opened the door 
for me, and the footman who took off my coat, and the three 
ladies and the two gentlemen wliom I found in the drawing- 
room, and Prince Ivan Ivanitch himself in particular, who was 
sitting on the sofa in a plain coat, — it seemed to me that 
they all looked iqion me as the heir, and therefore with ill- 
will. The Prince was veiy friendly with me : he kissed me, 
that is to sa3% he laid his soft, dry, cold lips against my cheek 
for a moment, inquired about my occupations and plans, 
jested with me, asked if I still w’rote verses like those which 
I had written for my grandmother’s name-day, and said that 
I must come and dine with him that day. But the more 
courteous he was, the more it seemed to me as though he 
wanted to pet me only to prevent my perceiving how disa- 
greeable was to him the thought that I was his heir. He had 
a habit — arising from the false teeth with w’hich his mouth 
was filled — of raising his upper lip tow’ards his nose after 
he had said any thing, and uttering a slight snort, as thougli 
he were drawing his lip into his nostrils ; and when he did 
this on the present occasion, it seemed to me as though he 
were saying to himself, “ Little boy, little bo}', I know it 
without 3’our reminding me of it : you are the heir, the heir,” 
and so on. 


278 


YOUTH. 


When we were children, we had called Prince Ivan Tvanitch 
“ uncle : ” but now, in niy capacity of heir, my tongue could 
not bring itself to say ‘‘Mincle’' to him, and it seemed to 
me humiliating to call him your excellency,” as one of the 
gentlemen present did ; so that, during the entire conversa- 
tion, I tried not to call him any thing at all. But what 
abashed me most of all was the old Princess, who was also 
one of the Prince’s heirs, and lived in his house. During 
the whole course of dinner, at which I was seated beside 
the Princess, I fancied that the Princess did not address me 
because she hated me for being also an heir of the Prince as 
well as herself ; and that the Prince paid no attention to our 
side of the table because we — the Princess and I — were 
heirs, and equally repulsive to him. 

‘‘Yes ; you can’t believe how disagreeable it was for me,” 
I said that same evening to Dmitri, desiring to brag to him 
of the feeling of repugnance to the thought that 1 was an 
heir (this sentiment seemed very fine to me), — “how dis- 
agreeable it was for me to pass two whole hours at the 
Prince’s to-day. He is a very line man, and was very polite 
to me,” said I, wishing, among other things, to impi'css my 
friend with the fact that what I said was not in consequence 
of having felt humiliated before the Prince; “but,” 1 con- 
tinued, ‘‘the thought that they might look upon me as they 
do upon the Princess who lives in his house, and behaves in 
such a servile way before him, is frightful. He is a won- 
derful old man, and extremely kind and delicate withal, but 
it is painful to see how he maltreats that Princess. This 
disgusting money ruins all intercourse ! 

“Do 3^11 know, I think it would be much better to explain 
myself clearly to the Prince,” said I, — “to tell him that I 
revere him as a man, but that I am not thinking of his 
inheritance, and that I beg him not to leave me an}" thing, 
and that under that condition only will I go to his house.” 

Dmitri did not laugh when I told him this : on the con- 
trary, he became thoughtful, and, after a silence of several 
minutes, he said to me, — 

“ Do you know what? You are not in the right. Either 
you should not supi)ose at all that people can think of 3^011 
as of your Princess : or else, if you do already suppose it, 
then you should carry your suppositions farther ; that is, to 
the effect that you know what people may think of 3^11, but 
that such thoughts are so far from your iutentions that you 


YOUTH. 


279 


scorn them, and will do nothing which is founded on them. 
Now, snp[)ose that they suppose that you su})pose this — 
Ihit, in short,” he added, conscious that he was involving 
himself in his reflections, “it’s much better noL to suppose 
it at all.” 

INIy friend was quite right. It wms only later, much later, 
that I was convinced from my experience of life how inju- 
rious it is to think, and how much more injurious to utter, 
much which seems very noble, but which should remain for- 
ever hidden from all in the heart of each individual man ; 
and how rarely noble words accompany noble deeds. 1 am 
convinced that the very fact that a good intention has been 
announced renders the execution of this good intention more 
difficult, and generally impossible. But how^ restrain the 
utterance of the nobly self-satisfied impulses of j'outh? 
One only recollects them afterwards, and mourns over them 
as over a flower wdiich did not last, — which one has plucked 
ere it had opened, and then has beheld upon the ground, 
withered and trampled on. 

I, who had but just told my friend Dmitri that money 
ruined intercourse, borrowed tw^enty-five rubles of him, which 
he offered me the next morning, before our departure to the 
country, when I found that I had wasted all my own money 
on divers pictures and pipe-stems ; and then 1 remained in 
his debt a very long time indeed. 


280 


YOUTH. 


CHAPTER XXII. 

AN INTIMATE CONVERSATION WITH MY FRIEND. 

Our present conversation arose in the phaeton on the road 
to Kuntzovo. Dmitri had dissuaded me from calling on his 
mother in the moi’iiing ; but he came to me, after dinner, to 
carry me oft* for the whole afternoon, and even to pass the 
night at the country-house where his family lived. It was 
only when we had emerged from the city and the dirty, mot- 
ley streets, and the intolerably deafening sound of the pave- 
ments had been exchanged for the broad view of the fields 
and the soft rattle of the wheels along the dusty road, and 
the fragrant spring air and the sense of space had seized 
hold upon me from all sides, — it was onh’ then that I recov- 
ered my senses in some degree from the various new impres- 
sions and consciousness of freedom which had quite confused 
me for the last two days. Dmitri was gentle and sympa- 
thetic, did not adjust his neckerchief with his head, and did 
not Screw his eyes up. I was satisfied with the lofty senti- 
ments which I had communicated to him, supposing that, in 
consideration of them, he had quite forgiven my shameful 
affair with Kolpikofi", and would not des[)ise me for it ; and 
we conversed, in a friendly way, of many intimate things 
which friends do not talk to each. other about under all con- 
ditions. Dmitri told me about his family, whom I did not 
know as yet, — about his mother, his aunt, his sister, and 
about the person whom Volodya and Dubkof considered my 
friend’s passion, and called the little red-head. He spoke of 
his mother with a certain cool, triumphant praise, as thougli 
to forestall any objection on that subject ; he expressed en- 
thusiasm with regard to his aunt, but with some condescen- 
sion ; of his sister, he said very little, and seemed ashamed 
to talk to me about her ; but as for the little red-head., whose 
name was really Liubov^ Sergieevna, and who was an elderly 
maiden lady, who lived in the Nekhliudoffs’ house m some 

^ Love’ not an uncommon feminine Christian name. 


YOUTH. 281 

family relation or other, he spoke to me of her with ani- 
mation. 

“ Yes, she is a wonderful girl,” said he, blushing modest- 
ly, but, at the same time, looking me boldly in the eye. 
“ She is no longer a young girl : she is even rather old, and 
not at nil pretty ; but how stupid, how senseless it is to love 
beauty ! I cannot understand it, it is so stupid [he spoke 
as if he had but just discovered a perfectly new and remai-k- 
able truth], but she has such a soul, such a heart, such prin- 
ciples, I am convinced that you will mot find another such 
girl in this present wx)rld.” (I do not know why Dmitri had 
acquired the habit of saying that every thing good was rare 
in this present world ; he was fond of repeating this expres- 
sion, and it seemed to become him.) 

‘‘I am only afraid,” he continued calmly, after having 
already annihilated with his condemnation people who had 
the stupidity to love beauty, “ I am afraid that you will 
not soon comprehend her, and learn to know her. She is 
modest, even I'eserved ; she is not fond of displaying her 
line, her wmnderful qualities. There is mamma, who, as you 
will see, is a very handsome and intelligent woman ; she has 
known Liubov Sergie(;vna for several 3mars, and can not and 
will not understand her. Even last night I — I will tell you 
why I was out of spirits when you asked me. Day before 
3'esterday, Liubov Sergieevna wanted me to go with her to 
Ivan Yakovlevitch — you have certainly heard of Ivan Ya- 
kovlevitch, who is said to be crazy, but, in reality, is a re- 
markable man. Liubov Sergieevna is very religious, 1 must 
tell you, and understands Ivan Yakovlevitch perfectly. She 
frequently goes to see him, talks with him, and gives him 
money for his poor people, which she has earned herself. 
She is a wonderful woman, as ^mu will see. Well, so I went 
with her to Ivan Yakovlevitch, and was very grateful to her 
for having seen that remarkable man. But mamma never 
will undei'stand this, and regards it as superstition. Last 
night I had a quarrel with m3’ mother, for the first time in my 
life, ai d a rather hot one,” he concluded, with a convulsive 
moveme-nt of the neck, as though in raemoi’y of the feeling 
which he had experienced during this quarrel. 

“ Well, and what do you think ? That is, how do 3^11 fancy 
it will turn out? or do you talk with her of how it is to be, 
and how your love and friendship will end?” I inquired, 
wishing to divert him from unpleasant memories. 


282 


YOUTH. 


“ Yon mean to ask, whether T think of marrying her? ” he 
inquired, reddening again, but turning and looking me bold- 
ly in the face. 

“Well, in fact,” I thought, tranquillizing myself, “it’s 
nothing : we are grown up ; we two friends are riding in this 
phaeton, and discussing our future life. Any one would 
enjoy listening and looking at us now, unseen.” 

“ Why not? ” he went on, after my answer in the affirma- 
tive. ‘‘ It is my aim, as it is the aim of every right-minded 
man, to be happy and* good, so far as that is possible ; and 
with her, if she will only have it so, I shall be happier and 
better than with the greatest beauty in the world, as soon as 
I am entirely independent.” 

Engaged in such discourse, we did not observe that we had 
arrived at Kuntzovo, that the sky had clouded over, and that 
it was preparing to rain. The sun stood not veiy high on 
the right, above the ancient trees of the Kuntzovo garden, 
and half of its brilliant red disk was covered with gray, 
slightly luminous clouds ; broken, fiery rays escaped in bursts 
fiom the other half, and lighted up the old trees of the gar- 
den with striking brilliancy, as their dense green motionless 
crowns shone in the illuminated spot of azure sky. The 
gleam and light of this side of the heavens was strongly 
contrasted with the heavy ])urplish cloud which lay before us 
above the young birches which were visible on the horizon. 

A little farther to the right, behind the bushes and trees, 
we could already see the multi-colored roofs of the buildings 
of the villa, some of which reflected the brilliant rays of the 
sun, while some assumed the melancholy character of the 
other half of the heavens. Below, on the left, the motion- 
less pond gleamed blue, surrounded by pale green willows 
which stood out darkly against its dull and seemingly swollen 
surface. Beyond the pond, halfway up the hill, stretched a 
black steaming field ; and the straight line of green which 
divided it in the middle ran off into the distance, and rested 
on the threatening, lead-colored horizon. On both sides of 
the soft road, along which the phaeton rolled with regular 
motion, luxuriant tangled rye stood out sharply in its ver- 
dure, and was already beginning to develop stalks here and 
there. The air was perfectly quiet, and exhaled freshness ; 
the verdure of trees, leaves, and rye was motionless and 
unusually pure and clear. It seemed as though every leaf, 
every blade of grass, were living its own free, happy, individ- 


YOUTH. 


283 


nal life. Beside the road, I espied a blackish foot-path, 
which wound amid the dark green rye, which was now 
more than quarter grown ; and this path, for some reason, 
recalled the village to me with special vividness ; and, in 
consequence of my thoughts of the village, by some strange 
combination of ideas, it reminded me with special vividness 
of Sonitchka, and that I was in love with her. 

In spite of all my friendship for Dmitri, and the pleasure 
which his frankness afforded me, I did not want to know any 
more about his feelings and intentions with regard to Liubov 
Sergieevna ; but I wanted, without fail, to inform him of my 
love for Sonitchka, which seemed to me love of a much 
higher ty{)e. But, for some reason, I could not make up 
my mind to tell him directly my ideas of how fine it would 
be, when, having married Sonitchka, I should live in the 
counti’y, and how I should have little children who would 
creel) about the floor and call me papa, and how delighted I 
should be when he and his wife, Liubov Sergieevna, came to 
see me in their travelling dress : but in place of all this, I 
pointed at the setting sun. “ See, Dmitri, how charming 
it is ! ” 

Dmitri said nothing, being apparently displeased that 1 
had replied to his confession, which had probably cost him 
some pain, by directing his attention to nature, to which he 
was, in general, coolly indifferent. Nature affected him 
very differently from what it did me : it affected him not so 
much by its beauty as by its interest ; he loved it with his 
mind, rather than with his feelings. 

“I am very happy,” 1 said to him after this, paying no 
heed to the fact that he was evidently occupied with his own 
thoughts, and was quite indifferent to whatever I might say 
to him ; I believe 1 told you about a young lady with whom 
I was in love when a child ; I have seen her again to-day,” 
I continued with enthusiasm, ‘‘ and now I am decidedly in 
love with her.” 

And I told him about my love, and all my plans for con- 
nubial bliss in the future, in spite of the expression of indif- 
ference which still lingered on his face. And, strange to 
say, no sooner had I minutely described all the strength of 
my feeling, than it began to decrease. 

The rahi overtook us just after we had entered the birch 
avenue leading to the villa. I only knew that it was raining 
because a few drops fell upon my nose and hand, and some- 


284 


YOUTH. 


thing pattered on the young, sticky leaves of the birches, 
which, drooping their curling motionless branches, seemed to 
receive these pure, transparent drops on themselves with 
delight, which was expressed by the strong perfume with 
which they filled the avenue. We descended from the calash, 
in order to reach the house more quickly by running through 
the garden. But just at the entrance to the house we en- 
countered four ladies, two of whom had some work, the third 
a book, and the other was a[>proaching from another direction 
with a little dog, at a rapid pace. Dmitri immediately pre- 
sented me to his mother, sister, aunt, and Liubov Sergieevna. 
They stopped for a moment, but the rain began to descend 
faster and faster. 

“ Let us go to the veranda, and you shall introduce him to 
us again there,” said the one whom I took to be Dmitri’s 
mother ; and we ascended the steps with the ladies. 


YOU TIL 


285 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

THE NEKIILIUDOFFS. 

At first sight, out of all this company the one who struck 
me most was Liubov Sergieevna, who mounted the steps last 
of all, in thick knitted shoes, holding in her arms a Bo- 
lognese spaniel, and, halting twice, gazed attentively at me 
and immediately afterwards kissed her dog. She was very 
iigl3% red-h:iired, thin, short, and rather one-sided. What 
rendered her homely face even plainer was her queer manner 
of dressing her hair, all to one side (one of those coiffures 
which bald women invent for themselves), 'fry as I would, 
out of a desire to [ffease my friend, 1 could not discover a 
single good feature in her. Even her brown eyes, although 
they expressed good-nature, were too small and dull, and 
decidedly ugly ; even her hands, that characteristic trait, 
though not large, and not bad in shape, were red and rough. 

When I followed them on to the terrace, each one of the 
ladies, except Varenka, Dmitri’s sister, who only surveyed 
me attentively with her great, dark-gray eyes, said a few 
words to me before they resumed their several occupations ; 
but Varenka began to read aloud from the book which she 
held on her knee, using her finger as a marker. 

Princess Marya Ivanovna was a tall, stately woman of 
forty. She might have been taken for more, judging by the 
curls of half-gray hair which were frankly displayed beneath 
her cap. But she seemed much younger, on account of her 
fresh and delicate face, which was scarcely wi inkled at all, 
and })a]-ticularly from the lively, merry gleam of her large 
e3"es. Her eves were brown, and very well opened ; her 
lips were too thin, and somewhat stern ; her nose was suf- 
ficiently regular, and a little to the left side ; there were no 
rings on her large, almost masculine hands, with their long 
fingers. She wore a close, daik-blue dress, which fitted 
tightly to her elegant and still youthful figure, of which she 


286 


YOUTH. 


was evidently proud. She sat remarkably upright, and 
sewed on some garment. When I entered the veranda she 
took my hand, drew me towards her as though desirous of 
viewing me more closely, and said, as she looked at me with 
the same cold, open gaze which her son also possessed, that 
she had long known me from Dmitri’s accounts of me, and 
that she had invited me to spend a whole day with them, in 
order that she might become better acquainted with me. 
“ Do whatever you like, without minding us in the least, 
just as we shall put no consti-aint on ourselves because of 
you. Walk, read, listen, or sleep, if that amuses 3 ’ou 
more,” she added. 

Sophia Ivanovna was an elderly spinster, and the Prin- 
cess’s youngest sister, but from her looks she seemed older. 
She had that peculiar build, full of character, which is only 
met with in very plump, short old maids who wear corsets. 
It was as 'if all her health had risen upwards with such force 
that it threatened every moment to sutfocate her. Her little 
fat hands could not meet beneath the projecting point of her 
bodice, and the tightly stretched point itself she could not 
see. There was a strong family resemblance between the 
sisters, in s[)ite of the fact that Marya Ivanovna had black 
hair and black eyes, and Sophia Ivanovna was a blonde with 
large, lively, and at the same time calm, blue eyes (which is a 
great rarity). They had the same expression, the same nose, 
and the same lips, only Sophia Ivanovna’s nose and lips 
were a little thicker, and on the right side when she smiled, 
while the Princess's were on the left. So[)hia Ivanovna evi- 
dently tried to appear young still, judging from her dress 
and coiffure, and would not have displayed her gra}^ curls if 
she had had them. Her looks and her treatment of me 
seemed to me extremely haughtv from the very first moment, 
and they embarrassed me ; while wdth the Princess, on the 
other hand, 1 felt perfectly at m\^ ease. Possibly it was her 
stoutness, and a certain likeness in her figure to the portrait 
of Catherine the Great which struck me in her, that gave her 
that haughty aspect in ni}^ e}^es ; but I was thoroughly abashed 
when she said to me, gazing at me intentlv' the while, “ The 
friends of our friends are our friends.” 1 regained my com- 
posure, and changed my opinion of her entirely, only when, 
after uttering these words, she paused a while, and then 
opened her month, and sighed heavily. It must have been 
on account of her stoutness that she had a habit of sishino- 

O O 


YOUTH. 


287 


deeply after saying a few words, opening her month a little, 
and rolling her large blue eyes. So much amiable good- 
nature was expressed by this habit, for some reason or other, 
that after that sigh 1 lost all fear of her, and she pleased me 
extremeh'. Her eyes were charming, her voice melodious 
and pleasing ; even the excessively rounded lines of her 
form seemed to me at that period of my youth not devoid 
of beauty. 

Liubov Sergieevna. as the friend of my friend, w'ould 
(I supposed) immediately sny something extremely friendly 
and confidential to me, and she even gazed at me quite a long 
while in silence as if in indecision as to whether what she 
meant to sa}^ to me were not too friendly ; but she only broke 
the silence in order to inquire in what course I was. Then 
she gazed at me again intently for quite a while, evidently 
hesitating whether to utter or not to utter that confidential, 
friendly word ; and I, perceiving this doubt, besought her by 
the expression of my countenance to tell me all ; but she said, 
“ They say that very little attention is paid to science in the 
universities nowadays,” and called her little dog Suzette. 

Liubov Sergieevna talked the whole evening in the same 
sort of phrases, which, for the most part, fitted neither the 
matter in hand nor each other ; but I believed so firmly in 
Diniti’i, and he looked so anxiously first at me and then at 
her the whole evening with an expression that asked, “ Well, 
what do you think?” — that, as it frequently happens, 
although I was already convinced in m3’ own soul that there 
was nothing so ver}^ special about Liubov Sergieevna, 1 was 
very far from expressing m3" thought even to myself. 

Finally, the last member of this famih', Varenka, was a 
veiT plump girl of sixteen. 

'fhe onl3" pretty things about her were her great dark-gray 
eyes, with an expression which united mirth and calm obser- 
vation, and were verv much like her aunt’s e3"es ; her very 
large blonde braid of hair ; and an extremely soft and pretty 
hand. 

“ I think it bores you, Mr. Nicolas, to listen to the middle 
of this,” said Sophia Ivanovna with her good-natured sigh, 
turning over the pieces of a garment which she was engaged 
in sewing. The reading had come to an end 1)3’ this time, 
because Dmitri had gone off somewhere. 

‘‘ Or perhaps 3’ou have already read ‘ Rob Roy? 

At that time 1 considered it my duty, simply because I 


288 


YOUTH. 


wore a student’s uniform, to reph' with great intelligence and 
oriyinalitg without fail to every question, however simple, 
fiom people whom I did not know very well ; and I regarded 
it as the greatest disgrace to make brief, clear replies like 
‘‘yes” and “no,” “it is tiresome,” “it is pleasant,” and 
the like. Glancing at my fashionable new trousers, and at 
the brilliant buttons on m 3 ’ coa,t, 1 replied that I had not read 

Rob Roy,” but that it was very interesting to me to listen 
to it, because I preferred to read books from the middle 
instead of from the beginning. 

“It is twice as interesting: you can guess at what has 
happened, and what will happen,” I added with a self-satis- 
fied smile. 

The Princess began to laugh a kind of unnatural laugh 
(I afterwards observed that she had no other laugh). 

“But this must be correct,” said she. “And shall you 
remain here long, Nicolas? You will not take offence that I 
address 3 ’ou without the monsieur^ When are you going 
away ? ’ ’ 

“1 do not know ; to-morrov/ perhaps, and possibl}^ we may 
stay quite a long time,” I replied for some reason or other, 
although we must certainly go on the morrow. 

“1 should have liked 3 ’ou to remain, both for our sakes 
and for DmitiTs,” remarked the Princess, looking off in the 
distance ; “ friendship is a glorious thing at your age.” 

f felt that they were all looking at me, and waiting to see 
what I would sa 3 % although Varenka i)i‘etended that she was 
inspecting her aunt’s work. I felt that 1 was undergoing 
examination after a fashion, and that I must show off as 
favorabl 3 ^ as possible. 

“ Y"cs, for me,” said I, “Dmitri’s friendship is useful; 
but 1 cannot be useful to him, he is a thousand times better 
than I.” (Dmitri could not hear what 1 was sa 3 ung, other- 
wise I should have been afraid that he would detect the in- 
sincerity’ of my words.) 

The Ih’incess laughed again with the unnatural laugh which 
was natural to her. 

“Well, but to hear him talk,” said she, “it is you who 
are a little monster of perfection.” 

“ ‘ A monster of perfection,’ that’s capital, I must remem- 
ber that,” 1 thought. 

“ However, leaving 3 ’Ou out of the case, he is a master- 
hand at that,” she went on, lowering her voice (which was 


YOUTH. 


239 


particularly agreeable to me), and indicating Liubov Ser- 
gieevna with her eyes. “ He has discovered in his ponr 
little, aunt'' (that was what they called Liubov Sergieevua), 
“whom I have known, with her Suzette, for twenty 3’ears, 
such perfections as I never even suspected. — Vary;i, order 
them to bring me a glass of water,” she added, glancing 
into the distance again, having probabl^^ discovered ihat it 
was rather early^, or not at all necessaiy, to initiate me into 
family affairs: “or, better still, let him go. He has noth- 
ing to do, and do you go on reading. — Go straight into that 
door, 1113^ friend, and after you have traversed fift3’ paces 
halt, and say in a loud voice, ‘ Piotr, take Marya Ivanovna 
a glass of ice- water ! ’ ” she said to me, and again she laughed 
lightly with her unnatural laugh. 

“ She certainly wants to discuss me,” I thought, as I left 
the room : “ probably she wants to say, that she has ob- 
served that I am a very, very intelligent young man.” But 
I had not gone fifty paces when fat and panting Sophia 
Ivanovna overtook me with light swift stepc. 

“Thanks, mon cher,” said she: “1 am going there my- 
self, and 1 will tell him.” 


290 


YOU TIL 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

LOVE. 

Sophia Ivanovxa, as I afterwards learned, was one of 
those rare elderly woman, who, though born for family life, 
have been denied this happiness In’ fate, and who, in eonse- 
quence of this denial, deeide all at onee to pour out all the 
treasure of love which has been stored up so long, which has 
grown and strengthened in their hearts, upon certain chosen 
Eavorites. And the store is so inexhaustible among old 
maids of this sort, that, although the chosen ones are many, 
much love still remains, which they pour out upon all about 
them, on all the good and bad people with whom they come 
in contact in life. 

There are three kinds of love : — 

(1) Beautiful love : 

(’2) Self-sacriticing love ; and 

(3) Active love. 

1 do not speak of the love of a young man for a young girl, 
and hers for him : I fear these tendernesses, and I have been 
so unfortunate in life as never to have seen a single spark of 
truth in this species of love, but only a lie, in which senti- 
ment, connubial relations, money, a desire to bind or to 
unbind one’s hands, have to such an extent confused- the 
feeling itself, that it has been impossible to disentangle it. 
I am speaking of the love for man, which, according to the 
greater or lesser power of soul, concentrates itself upon one, 
upon several, or pours itself out upon many ; of the love 
of mother, father, brother, children, for a comrade, friends, 
fellow-countryman, — of love for man. 

Bf^autifnl lore consists in love of the beauty of the senti- 
ment itself, and its expression. For peojde who love thus, 
the beloved object is beloved only inasmuch as it arouses 
that agreeable sentiment, in the consciousness and expression 


YOUTH. 291 

of whicli they delight. People who love with beautiful love 
care very little about reciprocity, as for an item which has no 
intlueuce upon the beauty and pleasure of the seutirneut. 
Tliey frequently chauge the objects of their love, as their 
chief aim consists simply in having the agreeable feeling of 
love constantly excited. Jn order to preserve this pleasing 
sentiment in themselves, they talk incessantly of their affec- 
tion in the most elegant terms, both to the subject of it, and 
to every one else, even to those who have no concern what- 
ever with this love. In our country, people of a certain 
class, who love beautifully, not only talk about their love to 
every one, but infallibly discuss it in French. It is a queer 
and a strange thing to say ; but I am convinced that there 
have been and still are many people of distinguished society, 
especially women, whose love for their friends, their hus- 
bands, and their children, would be instantly annihilated if 
they were but forbidden to speak of it in French. 

The second species of love — self-sacrificing love — con- 
sists in love of the process of immolating one’s self for the 
beloved object, without any regard to whether the beloved 
object is the better or the worse for these sacrifices. “ There 
is nothing so disagreeable that I would not do it in order to 
prove my devotion to the whole world, and to him or to her."" 
That is the formula of this species of love. People who love 
thus never believe in reciprocity (because it is more merito- 
rious to sacrifice one’s self for a person who does not under- 
stand me), and are always sickly, which also heightens the 
merit of the sacrifice ; they are constant, for the most part, 
because it would be hard for them to lose the merit of those 
sacrifices which the}^ have made for the beloved object ; they 
are always ready to die to prove to him or to her the extent 
of their devotion, but they despise the little every-day dem- 
onstrations of love which do not require special outbursts of 
self-sacrifice. It makes no difference to them whether you 
have eaten or slept Vv^ell, whether you are cheery, or whether 
you are in health, and they do nothing to procure you those 
comforts if they are within their power ; but to stand in front 
of a ball, to fling themselves into the water or into the fire, 
to go into a decline for love, — they are always ready to do 
this if the opportunity only presents itself. Moreover, people 
who are inclined to self-sacrificing love are always proud of 
their love, exacting, jealous, distrustful ; and, strange to say, 
they desire danger for its object, that they may rescue him 


292 


YOUTH. 


from his misfortune, that they may comfort him, — and even 
vices, that they may reform him. 

Yon are living alone in the country with yonr wife, who 
loves 3\on with self-sacrificing love. Y^on are well, calm, yon 
have occupations which yon like : 3^onr loving wife is so 
weak that she cannot busy herself with the management of the 
household, which is confided to the hands of domestics, nor 
with the children, who are in the hands of nurses, nor with 
any thing which she would love, because she loves nothing 
but yon. She is visibly ill, bnt, not wishing to pain yon, she 
will not mention this to yon ; she is x)Jainly bored, bnt for 
3^0111’ sake she is ready to be bored all her life. The fact that 
3^11 are so intently occupied with 3^111* affairs (whatever the3^ 
may be, hunting, books, farming, service), is visibly killing 
her ; she sees that these occupations are mining 3^011, bnt she 
holds her peace, and snffei’s. Bnt now 3'ou fall ill. Y^onr 
loving wife forgets her illness for yon, and in spite of 3mnr 
prayer that she will not torment herself for nothing, she sits 
1)3" 3'onr bedside, and will not leave it ; and you feel her S3"m- 
pathetic glance upon 3^011 eveiy second, saying, “Whatever I 
said, it makes no difference to me, I will not leave 3’on.” In 
the morning you are a little better, and yon go to another 
room. The room is not warmed, nor put in order ; the soup, 
which is the only thing 3^011 can eat, has not been ordered 
from the cook ; the medicine has not been sent for ; but yonr 
poor, loving wife, exhausted by her vigil, gazes at 3*011 with 
the same expression of S3"mpathy, walks on tiptoe, and gives 
the servants confused and unaccustomed orders in a whisper. 
YT)n want to read : yonr loving wife tells 3"on with a sigh that , 
she knows yon will not listen to her, that yon will be angr3" 
with her, but she is used to that, — it is better for yon not to 
read. Y"on want to walk across the room : yon had better 
not do it. Y"on want to speak to a friend who has arrived : 
it is better for yon not to talk. Y"ou have fever again in the 
night, and yon want to forget yourself ; bnt yonr loving wife, 
pale, haggard, sighing from time to time, sits opposite yon 
in an arm-chair, under the half light of the night-lamp, and 
arouses in yon a feeling of irritation and impatience by the 
slightevst sound or movement. Yon have a servant who has 
lived with yon for twenty years, to whom yon are accus- 
tomed, who serves yon admirably and, satisfactoril3* because 
he has slept sntliciently during the day, and receives wages ; 
bnt she will not permit him to wait upon 3*011. She will do 


YOUTH. 


293 


every thing with her own weak, unskilled fingers, which you 
cannot avoid watching with repressed vexation, wlien those 
white fingers strive in vain to uncork a phial, to extinguish a 
candle, to pour out your medicine, or wdien they touch you 
l)eevishly. If you are aii impatient, hot-tempered man, and 
beg her to go away, you hear her wdth your irritated, sickly 
sense of hearing, sighing and crying outside the door, and 
whispering something to your man ; and finally, if you do not 
die, your loving wife, who has not slept all the twenty nights 
during which your sickness has lasted (as she repeats to you 
incessantly), falls ill, goes into a decline, suffers, and be- 
comes still less capable of any occupation, and, by the time 
you are in a normal condition, expresses her love of self- 
sacrifice only by a gentle ennui which involuntarily com- 
municates itself to you, and to all about you. 

The third sort — active love — consists in the endeavor 
to satisfy all needs, desires, whims, all vices even, of the 
beloved object. People wfiio love thus, ahvays love for life ; 
for the more the}' love, the more they know the beloved 
object, and the easier it is for them to love ; that is, to 
satisfy his desires. Their love is rarely expressed in words ; 
and, if expressed, it is not with self-satisfaction, eloquently, 
but shamefacedly, awkwardly, for they are always afraid 
that they do not love sufficiently. They seek reciprocity, 
even wulliiigly deceiving themselves, believe in it, and are 
happy if they have it ; but they love all the same, even under 
the opposite conditions, and not only desire happiness for the 
beloved object, but constantly strive to procure it for him by 
all the moral and' material, the great and the petty means 
which are in their power. 

And it was this active love for her nephew, for her sister, 
for Liubov Sergieevna, for me, even, because Dmitri loved 
me, which shone in the eyes, in every w'ord and movement, 
of Sophia Ivanovna. 

It was- only much later that I estimated Sophia Ivanovna 
at her full worth ; but even then the question occurred to 
me. Why did Dmitri, wdio wms trying to understand love in 
a totally different fashion from what was usual with young 
men, and who had always before his eyes this sweet, affec- 
tionate Sophia Ivanovna, suddenly fall in love with that 
incomprehensible Liubov Sergieevna, and only admit that 
his aunt also possessed good qualities? Evidently, the say- 
ing is just: “A proj[)het has no honor in his own country.” 


294 


YOUTH, 


One of two things must be : either there actually is more 
evil than good in every man, or else man is more accessible 
to evil than to good. He had not known Liubov Sergieevna 
long, but his aunt’s love he -had experienced ever since his* 
birth. 


YOUTH. 


295 


CHAPTER XXV. 

I BECOME ACQUAINTED. 

When T returned to the veranda, they were not speaking 
of me at all, as I had sujiposed : but Varenka was not read- 
ing ; and, having laid aside her book, she was engaged in a 
hot dispute with Dmitri, who was pacing back and forth, 
settling his neck in his neckerchief, and screwing up his 
eyes. The subject of their quarrel seemed to be Ivan Yakov- 
levitch and superstition ; but the quarrel was so fiery, that 
the real but unmentioned cause could not fail to be a dif- 
ferent one, and one which touched the whole family more 
nearly. The Princess and Liubov Sergieevna sat silent, lis- 
tening to every word, evidently desirous at times to take 
part in the discussion, but restraining themselves, and allow- 
ing themselves to be represented, the one by Varenka, the 
other by Dmitri. When I entered, Varenka glanced at me 
with such an expression of indifference that it was plain that 
the dispute interested her deeply, and that it made no differ- 
ence to her whether I heard what she said or not. The 
Princess, who evidentlv was on Varenka’s side, wore the 
same expression. But Dmitri began to dispute with even 
greater heat in my presence ; and Liubov Sei gieevna seemed 
excessively frightened at my appearance, and said, without 
addressing an}’ one in particular, “Old people say truly: If 
youth knew, if old age had the powder” (si jeunesse savuit, 
si vieiUesse pouvait). 

JLit this adage did not put an end to the dispute, and only 
prqmiited the thought in me that Liubov Sergieevna and my 
friend were in the wrong. Although I felt rather awkward 
at being present at a petty family quarrel, it was neverthe- 
less pleasant to observe the real relations of this family, 
W’hich were exhibited in consequence of the debate ; and I 
felt that my presence did not prevent their exhibiting them- 
selves. 


296 


YOUTH. 


It often happens that yon see a family for years under the 
same deceitful veil of propriety, and the true relations of the 
members remain a secret to yon. (I have even observed, 
that, the more imptmetrable and ornamental the curtain, the 
coarser are the genuine relations which are concealed from 
yon.) Then it comes to pass on a day, quite unexpectedly, 
that there arises in this family circle some question, often 
apparently trivial, concerning some blonde, or a visit with 
the husband’s horses : and, without any visible cause, the 
quarrel gi'ows more and more violent, the space beneath the 
curtain becomes too contracted for a settlement, and all at 
once, to the terror of the wranglers themselves, and to the 
amazement of those present, all the real, coarse relations 
creep out; the curtain, which no longer covers any thing, 
flutters useless between the warring sides, and only serves 
to remind you how long you have been deceived b}' it. 
Often it is not so painful to dash one’s head against the ceil- 
ing in full swing as it is to touch a sore and sensitive spot, 
though ever so lightly. And such a sore and sensitive 
spot exists in nearly every family. In the Nekhliudoff fam- 
ily, this sensitive spot consisted of Dmitri’s strange love for 
Liubov Sergieevna, which aroused in his mother and sister, 
if not a sense of envy, at least a sentiment of wounded 
family feeling. Therefore it was that the dispute about 
Ivan Yakovlevitch and superstition held such a serious sig- 
nificance for all of them. 

“ Y"ou are always trying to see into what other people 
ridicule and despise,” said Varenka, in her melodious voice, 
pronouncing every letter distinctly. “ It is just in all those 
kinds of things that you try to discover something remark- 
ably fine.” 

‘‘In the first place, only the frivolous of men can 

speak of despising such a remarkable man as Ivan Yakovle- 
vitch,” retorted Dmitri, throwing his head spasmodically on 
the opposite side from his sister ; “ and in the ^iecond place, 
you are trying purposely not to see the good which stands 
before your very e^^es.” 

On her return to us, Sophia Ivanovna glanced several 
times, in a frightened way, now at her nephew, then at her 
niece, then at me ; and twice she opened her mouth as though 
to speak, and sighed heavily. 

“ Idease, Varya, read as quickly as possible,” she said, 
handing her the book, and tapping her caressingly on the 


YOUTH. 


297 


hand ; “I am very anxious to know whether they found her 
again. [It seems that there is no question whatever, in the 
book, of any one finding an}’ one else.] And as for you, 
INIitya, my dear, you had better wrap up your eheek, for the 
air is fresh, and 3 ’our teeth will ache again,” said she to her 
nephew, notwithstanding the look of displeasure which he 
cast upon her, probably because she had broken the thread 
of his argument. The reading was resumed. 

This little quarrel did not in the least disturb the family 
peace, and that sensible concord which breathed from that 
feminine circle. 

This circle, to which Princess Marya Ivanovna evidently 
gave the character and direction, had for me a perfectly 
novel and attractive tone, of a certain sort of logic, and at 
the same time of simplicity and elegance. This tone was 
expressed for me by the beauty, purity, and simplicity of 
things, — the bell, the binding of the book, the arm-chair, 
the table ; and in the straight, snug bodice, in the pose of 
the Princess, in her gray curls brought out into view, and 
in her manner of calling me simply Nicolas, and /ic, at our 
first meeting ; in their occupations, the reading aloud, the 
sewing ; and in the remarkable whiteness of the ladies’ 
hands. (They all had a common family mark on the hand, 
which consisted in the soft portion of the palm being of a 
deep-red hue, and separated by a sharp, straight line from 
the unusual whiteness of the upper part of the hand.) But 
this character was expressed most of all, in the excellent 
manner in which all three spoke French and Russian ; pro- 
nouncing every letter distinctly, and finishing every word and 
phrase witli pedantic accuracy. ,A11 this, and in particular 
the fact that they treated me simply and sei-iously in this 
society, as a grown-u]) person, uttered their own thoughts to 
me, listened to my opinions, — to this I was so little accus- 
tomed, that, in spite of my brilliant buttons and blue facings, 
I was still afraid they would say to me, all at once, “ Do 
you think people are going to talk seriously with you? go 
study!” — all this resulted in ni}^ not feeling the slightest 
embarrassment in their society. 1 I’ose and changed my seat 
from place to place, and talked with all except Varenka, to 
whom it still seemed to me improper, for some reason, to 
speak first. 

During the reading, as I listened to her pleasant voice, I 
glanced now at her, now at the sandy path of the flower- 


298 


YOUTH. 


'garden, upon which dark round spots of rain were forming, 
upon the lindens, on whose leaves occasional drops of rain 
still continued to patter from the pale, bluish edge of the 
thinning thunder-cloud which enveloped us, then at her 
again, then at the last crimson rays of the setting sun, which 
illuminated the dense and ancient birches all dripping with 
jrain, and then at Varenka again ; and I decided that she was 
not at all ugly, as she had seemed to me at first. 

“ It’s a pity that I am already in love,” I thought, “ and 
that Varenka is not Sonitchka. How nice it would be to 
suddenly ‘become a member of this family ! 1 should gain a 
mother and an aunt and a wife all at once.” And as medi- 
’tating thus I glanced at Varenka as she read, and thought 
that I would magnetize her, and make her look at me, Va- 
renka raised her head from her book, glanced at me, and, 
meeting my eyes, turned away. 

“ It has not stopped raining 3'et,” she said. 

. And all at once I experienced a strange sensation. I sud- 
denly recollected that what was now happening to me was an 
exact repetition of what had happened once before ; that 
then, also, a light rain was falling, and the sun was setting 
behind the birches, and I was looking at her, and she was 
reading, and I had magnetized her, and she had glanced up, 
and I had even recollected that this had happened before. 

“Is it she? she?'' I thought. Is it beginning?" But 
I speediA decided that she w^as not the she, and that it w'as 
not beginning j^et. “In the first place, she is ugl}^,” I 
thought; “and in the next place, she is simply a young 
lady, and I have made her acquaintance in the most com- 
monplace manner. But she will be remarkable, and I shall 
meet her somewhere, in some uncommon place ; and, besides, 
this family only pleases me so much because I have not seen 
any thing 3'et,” 1 decided. “ But of course there are alwa3’s 
suet ., and I shall meet with many during my life.” 


YOUTH. 


299 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

I snow MYSELF FROM THE MOST ADVANTAGEOUS POINT OF 

VIEW. 

At tea-time the reading came to an end ; and the ladies 
engaged in a conversation between themselves, about persons 
and circumstances with which I was unfamiliar, expressly, so 
it seemed to me, for the purpose of making me feel, in spite 
of my cordial reception, the difference which existed, both in 
years and in worldly position, between them and me. Butin 
the general conversation in which I could take part, I made 
lip for my former silence, and endeavored to exhibit my 
remarkable intelligence and originality, which I considered 
that my uniform specially bound me to do. AVhen the con- 
versation turned on conntry-houses, I suddenly related how 
Prince Ivan Ivan itch had such a villa near Moscow that peo- 
ple came from London and Paris to see it ; that there was 
a grating there which was worth three hundred and eighty 
thousand rubles ; and that Prince Ivan Ivan itch was a very 
near relative of mine, and that I had dined with him that 
da}^ and he had told me that I must be sure to come and 
spend the whole summer with him at that villa, but that 
I had refused, because I knew the house very well, since I 
had been there a number of times, alid that all those fences 
and bridges were not at all interesting to me because I could 
not bear luxury, especially in the country, and that I liked 
every thing in the country to be like the countiy. Having 
uttered this strangely complicated lie, I became confused, 
and turned so red that every one must have certainly’ per- 
ceived that I was l3dng. Varenka, who handed me a cup of 
tea at that moment, and Sophia Ivanovna, who had been 
gazing at me while I was speaking, both turned away from 
me, and began to talk of something else, with an expression 
of countenance which I have often met with in good people 
since then, when a very young man begins plainly to lie in. 


800 


YOUTH. 


their very faces, and which signifies, “ Of course we know 
that he is lying, and why he does it, poor fellow ! ” 

The reason why 1 said that Prince Ivan Ivanitch had a 
villa was that I saw no better pretext for mentioning my 
relationship to Prince Ivan Ivanitch, and that I had dined 
with him that day ; but why did I tell about that grating wortli 
three hundred and eighty thousand ruldes, and that I had 
been to his house so often, when I had never been even once, 
and could not go, since Prince Ivan Ivanitch lived only in 
]\Ioscow or Naples, which the Nekhliudoffs knew very well? 
I really cannot account to myself for it. Neither in child- 
hood, nor boyhood, nor afterwards in a riper stage of growth, 
have I ever detected the vice of h’ing in mvself ; on the con- 
trary, I have been rather too frank and upright : but during 
this first period of adolescence, a strange desire to lie in the 
most desperate manner, and without any apparent cause, 
^frequentl}' took possession of me. I say “desperate man- 
,ner“ expressly, because I lied about things where it was 
extremely easy to find me out. It seems to me that a vain- 
glorious desire to show myself off aS an entireh' different 
man from what I am, united to the impracticable hope in life 
of lying §o aspiot to be detected in the lie, was the chief 
cause of this strange tendency. 

After tea, as the rain had ceased, and the weather was 
clear and calm, the Princess proposed that we should go for 
. a walk in the lower garden, and admire her favorite spot. In 
accordance with my rule of always being original, and con- 
' sidei-ing that such clever people as the Princess and myself 
must stand above trivial politeness, I replied that I could not 
bear to w^alk without an object, and if I cared to walk at all, 
it was quite alone. I. had no idea that tliis was downright 
rude ; but it seemed to me then that there was nothing more 
disgraceful than state compliments, that nothing was more 
amiable and original than a little discourteous frankness.. 
' Nevertheless, quite content with my answer, I went to walk 
with the rest of the company. 

The Princess’s favorite spot was at the very bottom of the 
, garden in its depths, on a little bridge which was thrown 
over a small swamp. The view was extremely restricted, 
but very melancholy and pleasing. We are so accustomed 
to confounding art with nature, that very frequently those 
manifestations of nature which we have never encountered 
in pictures seem to us unnatural, — as though nature could 


YOUTH. 


301 


' be unnatural, — and those phenomena which have been too 
frequently repeated in art seem to ns threadbare. Bnt 
some views, too thoronglily penetrated with thought and sen- 
timent alone, seem fantastic when we come upon them in 
nature. The view from the Princess’s favorite place was of 
this nature. It consisted of a small pond with overgrown 
banks ; directly behind it was a steep hill covered with vast, 
ancient trees and bushes, with frequent changes in its many- 
lined verdure ; and at the foot of the hill, drooping over the 
pond, an ancient birch, which, partly clinging to the damp 
])ank of the pool with its thick roots, rested its crown npon 
a tall and stately ash-tree, and swung its curling branches 
over the smooth surface of the pond, which gave back the 
reflection of these drooping boughs and the snrronnding 
greenery. 

‘‘How charming!” said the Princess, shaking her head, 
and not addressing any one in particular. 

“ Yes, it is wonderful, only it seems to me that it is fright- 
fully like theatrical scenery,” said I, desirous of showing 
that I had an opinion of my own on every thing. 

The Princess continued to admire the view as though she 
had not heard my remark, and turning to her sister and Liu- 
bov Sergieevna she pointed out separate details, — the crook- 
ed ovei'hanging stump, and the reflection which particularly 
pleased her. Sophia Ivanovna said that it was all very 
beautiful, and that her sister was in the habit of passing 
several hours at a time here ; but it was evident that she only 
said so to please the Princess. I have observed that people 
who are endowed with the faculty of love are rarely sensitive 
to the beauties of nature. Liubov Sergieevna also went into 
i-ai)tures, asking, What does that birch hold to? will it stand 
long?” and she glanced constantly at her Suzette, who ran 
back and forth across the bridge on her crooked legs, wagging 
her tail, with an anxious expression, as though for the first 
time in her life it had chanced to hei’ not to be in a room. 
Dmitii began a logical argument with his mother, on the 
point that no view could be very beautiful where the horizon 
was limited. Varenka said nothing. W’hen I glanced round 
at her, she was standing leaning on the railing of the bridge, 
with her i)rofile towards me, and looking straight in front 
of her. Something probably interested her deeply, and even 
touched her ; for she had evidently forgotten herself, and had 
no thought for herself or that she was being looked at. Her 


302 


YOUTH. 


large eyes were so full of inteut observation, of calm, clear 
thought, her pose was so unaffected, and in spite of her 
short stature there was so much majesty about her, that I 
was again struck by what seemed a memory of her, and 
again I asked myself, “Is it not beginning?” and again I 
answered myself, that I was already in love with Sonitchka, 
and that Varenka was simply a young lady, the sister of my 
friend. But she pleased me at that moment, and I felt in 
consequence an unbounded desire to do pr say to her some 
little unpleasant thing. 

“ Do you know, Dmitri,” I said to my friend, approaching 
nearer to Varenka, in order that she might hear what 1 was 
about to say, “ I think, that, even if there were not any 
mosquitoes, there would be nothing beautiful about this 
place ; and now,” I added, slapping my forehead, and really 
crushing a mosquito, “ it’s perfectly dreadful.” 

“ You do not seem to love nature? ” said Varenka to me, 
without turning her head. 

“ I think it is an idle, useless occupation,” I replied, very 
well satisfied with having uttered my little unpleasantness, 
and having been original. Varenka raised her eyebrows in 
an almost imperceptible manner for a moment, with an ex- 
pression of pity, and continued to look straight before her as 
composedly as ever. 

I w'as vexed with her ; but in spite of this, the grayish rail- 
ing of the bridge with its faded paint, upon which she leaned, 
the reflection in the dark pond of the drooping stump of the 
overturned birch, which seemed desirous of joining its droop- 
ing branches, the odor of the swamp, the feeling of the 
crushed mosquito upon my forehead, and her attentive gaze 
and majestic attitude, often presented themselves after- 
wards quite unexpected!}^ to my imagination. 


y^UT^, 


303 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

DMITRI. 

When we returned home after our walk, Varenka did not 
fs'ish to sing as she usually did in the evening ; and 1 had the 
self-assurance to set it down to my own account, fancying 
that the cause was Avhat I had said to her on the bridge. 
"Phe Nekhliudoffs did not have supper, and dispersed early ; 
and that day, since Dmitri’s teeth began to ache, as Sophia 
Ivanovna had predicted, we went off to his room even earlier 
than usual. Supposing that I had done all that my blue 
, collar and my buttons required of me, and tliat 1 had pleased 
everybody, I was in an extremely amiable, self-satisfied frame 
. of mind. Dmitri, on the contraiy, in consequence of the 
. quarrel and his toothache, was silent and morose. He seat- 
^ed himself at the table, got out his note-books, his diary, 
and the book in which he was accustomed to write down 
. every evening his past and future occupations, and wrote in 
them for quite a long time, frowning incessantly, and touch- 
ing his cheek wdth his hand. 

‘‘Oh, leave me in peace!” he shouted at the maid who 
had been sent by Sophia Ivanovna to inquire how his teeth 
were, and if he did not want to make himself a fomenta- 
tion. After that, telling me that my bed would be ready 
directly, and that he would retire immediately, he went to 
Liubov Sergieevna. 

“ What a pity that Varenka is not pretty, and particularly 
that she is not Sonitchka ! ” I meditated, when I was left 
alone in the room. “ How pleasant it would be to come to 
them, and offer her my hand, when I leave the university ! 
I should say, ‘ Princess, I am no longer young ; I cannot 
love passionatel}' ; but I shall always love you like a dear 
sister.’ ‘ I already respect you,’ I should say to her mother ; 
‘ ‘and as for you, Sophia Ivanovna, pray believe that 1 esteem 
you highly. Then say simply and plainly, will you be my 


304 


yout:^. 


wife? ’ — ‘ Yes ; ’ and she will give me her hand, and T shall 
press it, and say, ‘My love is not in words, but in deeds.’ 
Well, and what if Dmitri should all at once fall in love with 
Liubotchka? ” came into my mind, — “ for Liubotchka is in 
love with him, — and should wish to marry her? Then one of 
us would not be able to marry. And that would be capital. 
Then this is what 1 should do. I should immediately perceive 
it, sav nothing, but go to Dmitri, and say, ‘ It is in vain, my 
friend, that we have tried to keep secrets from each other 
You know that my love for your sister will end only with my 
life ; but I know all, you have deprived me of my best hope, 
you have rendered me unhap})y ; but do you know how 
Nikolai Irteneff revenges himself for the unhappiness of his 
whole life? Here is my sister for you,’ and 1 should give 
him Liubotchka’s hand. He would say, ‘ No, not on any 
terms ! ’ and I should say, ‘ Prince Nekhliudoff, in vain do 
you endeavor to be more magnanimous than Nikolai Irteneff. 
Theie is not a more magnanimous man in the world than he.’ 
Then I should bow and retire. Dmitri and Liubotchka would 
run after me in tears, and beseech me to accept their sacri- 
fice, — and I might consent and be very happy if I were only 
in love with Varenka.” These dreams were so agreeable 
that 1 wanted very much to communicate them to my friend ; 
but in spite of our mutual vow of frankness, I felt that for 
some reason it was physically impossible to say it. 

Dmitri returned from Liubov Sergieevna, with some drops 
on his tooth which she had given him, in still greater suffer- 
ing, and consequent!}^ still more gloomy. My bed was not 
ready yet ; and a little boy, Dmitri’s servant, came to ask 
him wliere I was to sleep. 

“Go to the devil!” shouted Dmitri, stamping his foot. 
‘Alaska. Yaska, Yaska! ” he cried as soon as the boy was 
gone, raising his voice at each repetition, — “Yaska, make 
me up a bed on the floor.” 

“ No. it will be better for me to lie on the floor,” said I. 

“ Well, it’s no matter: make it up somewhere,” went on 
Dmitri in the same angry tone. “Yaska! why don’t you 
spread it down ? ” 

But Yaska evidently did not understand what was wanted 
of him, and stood motionless. 

“ Well, what’s the matter with you? Make it! make it! 
Yaska, Yaska ! ” shouted Dmitri, suddenly flying into a kind 
X)f fury. 


YOUTH. 305 

But Vaska, still not comprehending, and becoming fright- 
ened, did not move. 

‘‘ So you have sworn to mur — to drive me mad?” and, 
springing from his chair, Dmitri flew at the boy, and struck 
several blows with his fist upon the head of Vaska, who ran 
headlong from the room. Halting at the door, Dmitri glanced 
at me ; and the expression of rage and cruelty which his 
face had borne for a moment changed into such a gentle, 
shamefaced, and atfectionatel}' childish expression, that I wiis 
sorry for him. But, much as I wanted to turn away, I could 
not make up m}^ mind to do it. He said nothing to me, but 
paced the room for a long time, glancing at me from time to 
time with the same look which besought forgiveness, then took 
a note-book fiom the table, Aviote something lU it, pulled off 
his coat, folded it carefully, went to the corner where the 
images hung, crossed his large white hands upon his breast, 
and began to pray. He prayed so long, that Vaska had time 
to fetch a mattress, and spread it on the floor as 1 directed 
him in a whisper to do. 1 undressed, and lay down upon the 
bed thus prepared on the floor ; but Dmitri still continued to 
pray. As 1 glanced at Dmitri’s scnnewhat bent back, and 
at the soles of his feet, which were presented to me in a rather 
submissive way when he prostrated himself on the earth, 
I loved Dmitri still more strongly than before, and I kept 
thinking, “Shall 1 or shall I not tell him what I have been 
dreaming about our sisters?” Having finished his prayer, 
Dmitri lay down beside me on the bed.; and, supporting him- 
self on his elbow, he looked at me long and silently with a 
steady affectionate gaze. It was evidentl}^ painful for him, 
but he seemed to be punishing himself. I smiled as I looked 
at him. He smiled also. 

“Why don’t you tell me,” said he, “that I have acted 
abominably? Of course you thought it at once.” 

“Yes,” I answered, — altliough I had been thinking of 
something else, but it seemed to me that I had really thouglit 
it, — “yes, it was not nice at all: I did not expect it of 
you,” said I, experiencing a special satisfaction at the mo- 
ment in addressing him as thou. “ Well, how are your 
teeth?” I added. 

“The pain has passed off. Ah, Nikolinka, my friend,” 
broke out Dmitri so affectionately, that stars seemed to stand 
in Ins sparkling eyes, “ I know and feel that I am wicked : and 
God sees how 1 desire to be better, and how 1 beseech Him 


306 


YOUTH. 


to make me better. But what am I to do if I hare such a 
wretched, repulsive cliaracter? what am I to do? 1 try to 
restrain myself, to reform myself ; but all at once this becomes 
impossible, and impossible to me alone. I need some one 
to support, to help me. There is Liubov Sergieevna, she un- 
derstands me, and has helped me a great deal in this. I 
know b}' my journal that I have improved a great deal during 
the last year. Ah, Nikolinka, my soul ! ” he continued with 
peculiar, unaccustomed tenderness, and a tone that was al- 
ready quieter after this confession, “ how much the influence 
of a woman like her means ! My God ! how good it will be 
when I am independent with another like her ! I am a totally 
different man with her.” 

And then Dmitri began to unfold to me his plans for mar- 
riage, country life, and constant labor upon himself. 

I shall live in the country. You will come to me, 
perhaps; and you will be married to Sonitchka,” said he. 
“ Our children will play together. Of course this all sounds 
ridiculous and stupid, but it may come to pass nevertheless.” 

^‘The idea! it is extremely possible,” said I, smiling, and 
thinking at the same time that it would be much better still 
if I were married to his sister. 

“ I am going to tell you something, do you know?” said 
he, after a short silence : “ you are only imagining that you 
are in love with Sonitchka, but it’s nonsense, I can see it ; 
and you do not yet know what the genuine feeling is like.” 

I made no reply, because I almost agreed with him. We 
remained silent for a while. 

“You surely must have observed that I have been in an 
abominable temper again to-day, and quarrelled in an ugly 
way with Varya. It was frightfully disagreeable for me 
afterwards, especially because it was before you. Although 
she thinks of many things in a way she should not, she’s a 
splendid girl, and very good when you come to know her 
more intimateh’.” 

His change of the conversation from the statement that I 
was not in love, to praises of his sister, rejoiced me greatly, 
and made me blush : nevertheless, 1 said nothing to him about 
his sister, and we went on talking of something else. 

Thus we chatted away until the second cock-crow, and the 
pale dawn had already peeped in at the window, when Dmi- 
tri went to his own bed, and extinguished the light. 

“ Well, now for sleep,” said he. 


YOUTH. 


307 


“Yes,” I answered, “ but one word more.” 

“ Well?” 

“Is it good to live in this world ?i’ 

“ It is good to live in this world,” he responded in such a 
voice, that it seemed to me that even in the dark I could see 
the expression of his merry, affectionate eyes and childlike 
smile. 


308 


YOUTH. 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

IN THE COUNTRY. 

The next day Volodya and I set off for the country, with 
post-horses. As I went over all my Moscow memories in 
my mind on the way, I remembered Sonitchka Valakhina, 
but only in the evening, when we had travelled five stages. 
“But it is strange,” thought I, “ that I am in love, and 
quite forgot it: I must think of her.” And I did begin to 
tliink of her, as one thinks while travelling, incoherently but 
vividly ; and I meditated to such a degree, that I considered 
it indispensable, for some reason or other, to appear sad and 
thoughtful for two days after our arrival in the country, 
before all the household, and especially in the presence of 
Katenka, whom I regarded as a great connoisseur in matters 
of this sort, and to whom I gave a hint of the condition in 
which I found my heart. But in spite of all my attempts at 
dissimulation before others and before myself, in spite of my 
deliberate assumption of all the signs which I had observed 
in others in an enamoured condition, in the course of those 
two da3"s I did not constantly bear it in mind that I was in 
love, but remembered it chiefly in the evening ; and finally I 
fell into the new round of country life and occupations so 
qnickh’ that I quite forgot about my love for Sonitchka. 

We arrived at Petrovskoe at night ; and I was sleeping so 
soundly that I saw neither the house nor the birch avenue, 
nor aii}^ of the household, who had already" retired and had 
long been asleep. Old bent Foka, barefooted, and wrapped 
in a kind of woman’s wadded dressing-gown, with a candle 
in his hand, shoved back the door-fastenings for us. He quiv- 
ered with joy on beholding us, kissed us on the shoulder, 
hastily gathered up his felt rug, and began to dress himself. 
I traversed the vestibule and staircase without being thor- 
oughly awake ; but in the ante-room the lock on the door, 
the bolt, the crooked boards, the clothes-press, the ancient 


YOUTH. 


309 


candlestick spotted with tallow as of old, the shadow of the 
cold, bent, recently lioiited tallow candle in the iniage-lanii), 
tlie always dust}’ double window which was never removed, 
behind wliicli, as I remembered, there grew a moimtain-ash 
tree, — all this was so familiar, so full of memories, so har- 
monious with itself, as though united in one tliought, tliat I 
suddenly felt upon me the caress of this dear old house. The 
question involuntarily presented itself to me, “How could 
we, the house and 1, go on without each other so long? ’’ and 
I ran in haste to see whether these were the same rooms. 
Every thing was the same, only every tiling liad grown small- 
er, lower. But the house received me joyously into its em- 
brace just as I was ; and every floor, every window, every 
step of the stairs, every sound, awakened in me a world of 
forms, feelings, occurrences of the happy past, which would 
never return. We went to the bedroom of our childhood : all 
my childish terrors were hiding again in the darkness of 
the corners and doors. We went into the drawing-room : the 
same gentle motherly love was diffused over every object 
which was in the room. We went to the hall : it seemed as 
though boisterous, careless childish mirth had lingered in this 
apartment, and was only waiting to be revivified. In the bou- 
doir, whither Foka led us and where he had made up beds for 
us, it seemed as if every thing — the mirror, the screen, the 
ancient wooden image, every inequality of the walls covered 
with white paper — all spoke of suffering, of death, of that 
which would never exist again. 

AVe lay down, and Foka left us after wishing us good 
night. 

“ JMamma died in this room, surely,” said Volodya. 

I did not answer him, and pretended to be asleep. If 
I had said a word, I should have bui’st out crying. When I 
awoke the next morning, papa, not yet dressed, was sitting 
on A'olodya’s bed, in fanciful slippers and dressing-gown, 
chatting and laughing with him. lie sprang up from Volodya 
with a merry bound, came up to me, and, slnpping me on the 
back with his large hand, he presented his cheek to me, and 
pressed it to my lips. 

“ Well, capital, thanks, diplomat,” said he with his own 
])eculiar caress, gazing at me with his small, twinkling eyes. 
“ Volodya says that you got thi’ough well, young fe llow : 
that’s glorious. You’i-e my fine little fefilow when you take 
a notion not to be stupid. Thanks, my friend. AVe shall live 


310 


YOUTH. 


very pleasantly here now, but we shall go to Peterbnrg for 
the winter; only it’s a pity that the hunting is over, for I 
might have amused yon. Yon can hunt with a gun, Walde- 
mar? there’s any quantity of game, and I will go with j’on 
myself some day. So, if it be God’s will, we shall go to 
lYterbiirg for the winter : you shall see people, make connec- 
tions. You are grown up now, my-children, and I was just 
telling Waldemar that you now stand on the road, and my 
task is over : you can walk alone. But if you want to confer 
with me, to ask advice, 1 am no longer your daddy, but your 
friend and comrade, and counsellor, wherever I can be of 
use, and nothing more. How does that suit your philosophy, 
Koko? Hell? is it good or bad? heh? ” 

Of course I answered that it was capital, and I really 
thought it so. Papa had a peculiarly fascinating, merry, 
happy expression that da}’' ; and these novel relations with 
me, as with an equal, a companion, made me love him more 
than ever. 

Now tell me, did you call on all our relatives, and on 
the Ivins? Did you see the old man? What did he say 
to yon?” he continued to interrogate me. ‘‘ Did you go to 
see Prince Ivan Ivanitch? ” 

And we chatted so long before dressing, that the sim had 
already begun to desert the windows of the divan-room ; and 
Yakov, who was just exactly as old as ever, and twisted his 
fingers behind his back and spoke just the same as evmr, came 
to our room, and announced to papa that the calash was ready. 

Where are you going? ” I asked papa. 

“ Ah, I had nearly forgotten,” said papa with a twitch and 
cough of vexation. I promised to go to the Epifanoffs’ to- 
day. Do you remember the Epifanova, la belle Flamandef 
she used to visit your mamma. They are very nice people,” 
and papa left the room twitching his shoulders in embarrass- 
ment, as it seemed to me. 

Liubotchka had come to the door several times during our 
chat, and inquired, ‘"Can I come in?” but each time papa 
shouted to her through the door, that it “ was utterly impos- 
sible, because we were not dressed.” 

“What’s the harm? I’ve seen you in vour dressins:- 
gown . 

“ It’s impossible for you to see your brothers without their 
ine.rpressibles.,'' he shouted to her ; “ and if each one of them 
knocks on the door to you, will you be satisfied? Knock, 


YOUTH. 


811 


and it is even improper for them to sj^eak to 3 ’on in such 
'negligL'’\ 

“Ah, !io\v nnbearahle yon are I At a!l (‘V(Mits, do conic 
to the drawing-room as cpiicklv as iiossihle. ]\iin,i wants so 
much to see you ! ” called Liuhotdika outbidc the door. 

As soon as })apa went aw'ay J dresscal myself as (piickly as 
possible in my student’s coat, and went to the drawing-room. 
I'olodya, cn the contrary, did not hurry himself, and sat up- 
stairs for a long time, talking with Yakov about the places to 
find snijie ami woodcock. As 1 have already said, tliere 
was nothing in the w'orld which he dreaded so much as senti- 
ment with his brother, his sister, or pa[)a, as he expressed it ; 
and, in avoiding every expression of feeling, he fell into the 
oilier extreme, — coldness, — which often hurt the feelings of 
people who did not understand its cause. In the ante-room 
J met papa, who was on his way to the carriage with short, 
brisk ste[)s. He had on his fashionable new Moscow' coat, 
and he w'as redolent of perfume. When he caught sight of 
me, he nodded gayly, as much as to say, Y"ou see, isn’t it 
fine?” and again 1 was struck by the happy expression of 
his eyes, which I had already observed that morning. 

The draw’iiig-room w'as the same bright, lofty apartment, 
with the yellowish English grand piano, and its great open 
windows, through w'hich the green trees and the yellowisli- 
red paths of the garden peeped gayly. Having kissed Mimi 
and Linbotchka, it suddenly occurred to mo as 1 approached 
Katenka, that it was not proper to kiss her ; and 1 came to a 
standstill, silent and blushing. Katenka, w'ho was not at all 
embarrassed, offered me her white hand, and congratulated 
me on my entrance to the university. When Volodya entered 
the room, the same thing happened to him at the sight of 
Katenka. In fact, it w'as hard to decide, after having grown 
up together, and having been in the habit of seeing each 
other evei'}^ day during all that time, how' we ought to meet 
now after our first separation. Katenka blushed far more 
deeply than all the rest of us. Volodya suffered no em- 
barrassment, but bow'ing slightl}^ to her, he w'alked off to 
Linbotchka, with w'hom he talked a little but not seriously ; 
then he w'ent off somewhere for a solitary w’alk. 


312 


YOUTH. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

OUR RELATIONS TO THE GIRLS. 

Volodya had such queer views about the girls, that he 
could interest himself iu the questions : were they fat? had 
they slept enough? were they properly dressed? did they 
make mistakes in French which he should be ashamed of 
before strangers? But he never admitted the idea that they 
could think or feel any thing human, and still less did he 
admit the idea that it was possible to discuss any thing with 
them. When they chanced to have occasion to appeal to him 
with any serious question (which, however, they already 
endeavored to avoid), if they asked his opinion about a novel 
or his occupations in the university, he made a face at them, 
and walked off in silence, or answered with some mutilated 
French phrase, such as comme ci tri joW^ and the like; or, 
putting on a serious and thoughtfully stupid face, he uttered 
some word which had no sense or connection at all with the 
question, made his eyes dull all at once, and said, a roll, or 
they have gone mvay, or cabbage, or something of that sort. 
When I chanced to repeat to him these words wdiich Liubotch- 
ka or Katenka had reported to me, he always said : 

“ Hm ! so you still discuss matters with them? Yes, I see 
3’ou are still in a bad wa}'.” 

And the profound, invariable contempt which was express'^d 
in this phrase required to be heard in order to be appreciated. 
Volodya had been grown up for two years now ; he was con- 
stantly falling in love with every pretty woman that he met : 
but although he saw Katenka every day (she had worn long 
dresses for two years, and grew prettier every day) , the idea 
of the possibility of falling in love with her never entered 
his head. AVhether this arose from the prosaic recollections 
of childhood, — the ruler, her simplicity, her caprices, were 
still too fresh in his memory ; or from the repugnance which 

1 Corame c’eet tree joli. 


YOUTH. 


313 


very 3'oiing people have for every thing that belongs to their 
own house ; or from the general human weakness, which, on 
meeting a good or a very beautiful thing at the beginning of 
the road, passes by saying to itself, “Eh! I shall meet 
many such in the course of my life,” — at all events, up to 
this time Volodya had not looked upon Katenka as a woman. 

Volodya w^as evidently very much bored all that summer. 
Ilis ennui proceeded from his scorn for us, which, as I have 
said, he did not attempt to hide. The expression of his face 
said constantly, “ Fit ! how tiresome ! and there’s nobody to 
talk to.” Peihaps he would set out on a hunt in the morn- 
ing with his gun, or would read a book in his room, without 
dressing himself, until dinner. If papa was not at home, he 
even brought his book to the table, and went on I'eading, 
without exchanging a syllable with any of ns, wdiich made us 
feel guilty of something or other towmrds him. In the even- 
ing, too, he lay wdth his feet on the sofa in the drawdng-room, 
and slept with his head resting on his hand, or invented the 
strangest nonsense, wdiich was at times even improper, and 
lied with a serious face, which made Mimi grow angiy, and 
turn red in spots, while we w^ere dying with laughter ; but he 
never condescended to talk seriously wdth any member of our 
family except papa, and, once in a while, with me. I quite 
involuntarily aped my brother in his views about the girls, 
although I wuis not so much afraid of sentiment as he was, 
and my contempt for the girls w'as far from being so deep and 
firmly rooted. I even made several attempts that summer, 
out of ennui, to enter into closer relations with Liubotchka 
and Katenka, and converse with them ; but on every occasion 
I found such an absence of the capacity for logical thought, 
and such ignorance of the simplest, most ordinary things, 
such as, for example, wdiat money was, what was taught in 
the university, what w^ar is, and so on, and such indifference 
to the explanations of all these things, that these attempts 
only served to confirm me in my unfavorable opinion of 
them. 

I remember howq one evening, Liubotchka was repeating 
some intolerably tiresome passage for the hundredth time on 
the piano. Volodya was lying dozing on the sofa in the 
drawing-room, and muttering at intervals with a certain 
malicious irony, but without addressing himself to any one 
in particular, “Ai I there she pounds away ; she’s a musician, 
a Beethoven [this name he uttered with special irony], that’s 


314 


YOU TIL 


clever, now once more, that’s it,” and so on. Katenka and 
1 were still at the tea-table, and 1 do not remember how 
Katenka led the conversation to her favorite topic, — love. I 
was in a mood to philoso[)hize, and I began in a lofty way to 
define love as the desire to acquire in another that which you 
had not 3 a)urself, and so forth. But Katenka retorted, that, 
on the contrary, it was not love, if a gii’l contemplated 
marrying a rich man, and that, in her opinion, property was 
the most worthless of all things, but that the only true love 
was that which can eiiduie s(q)aration (1 understood by this, 
that she was hinting at her love for Dubkoff). Volodva, who 
must have overheard our conversation, raised himself on his 
elbow, and cried interrogativel>q Kameiiku Rtissktkli ? ” 

Oh, janir eternal nonsense ! ” said Katenka. 

F peri's<'hnitza? ^ went on Volodya, emphasizing each 
vowel. And 1 could not but think that Volodya was quite 
right. 

Entirely' separate from the general qualities of intelligence, 
sensibilit 3 ^ and artistic feeling, there is a private quality 
whicli is more or less developed in various circles of society, 
and especially in families, which I call understanding. The 
essential point of this quality consists in a certain feeling of 
proi)ortion which has been agreed upon, and in an acce[)ted, 
one-sided view of subjects. Two men of the same circle, or 
of the same family, who possess this quality, can always 
allow their exi)ressioii of feeling to reach a certain point, 
beyond which both of them foresee the phrase. At one and 
the same moment they perceive where praise ends and irony 
begins, where enthusiasm ends and dissimulation begins ; 
while, with peo[)le of another understanding, it nnw appear 
quite otherwise. For people with one understanding, eveiy 
object which the 3 ^ have in common presents itself chiefly 
through its ridiculous, its beautiful, or its foul side. In 
order to render more easy this identity of comprehension, 
there arises, among })e()i)le of a certain circle or famil 3 g a 
tongue of its own, certain terms of speech, certain words 
even, which denote those shades of meaning which do not 
exist for other peo})le. In our family, this understanding was 
developed to the highest degree between papa and us two 
brothers. Dubkoff also had fitted our little circle pretty well, 
and understood ; but Dmitri, although ranch cleverer than he, 

1 As will be seen from what follows, these words are nonsense, and make as 
much sense untranslated as they would if an arbitrary meaning were assigned to 
them. 


YOUTH. 


815 


was stupid on this point. But in no case was this faculty 
developed to such a pitch of refinement as between Volodya 
and myself, who had grown up under identical conditions. 
Papa was already far behind us, and much that was as clear 
to us as two times two was incomprehensible to him. For 
instance, Volodya and 1 had agreed, God knows vvhy. upon 
the following words with corresponding meanings : Hidsins 
signified a vain-glorious desire to show that 1 had money ; 
u bump (the fingers must be joined, and the special emphasis 
placed on two of the consonants at the same time) sign hied 
something fresh, healthy, elegant, but not foppish ; a noun 
employed in the plural signified unreasonable passion for the 
object; and so forth, and so forth. Moreover, the meaning 
depended on the ex})ression of countenance, on the conver- 
sation as a whole ; so that, whatever new expression one of 
us invented for a new shade of meaning, the other under- 
stood it exactly in that sense at the first hint. The girls did 
not have our understanding, and this was the chief cause of 
our moral solitude, and of the scorn which we felt for them. 

Perhaps they had an UKclersliniding of their own ; but it 
was so unlike ours, that, wdiei’e we beheld a phrase, they saw 
a sentiment: oui’ irony was truth to them, and so forth. 
But 1 did not understand at the time that they were not to 
blame in this respect, and that fhis lack of compi-ehension 
did not prevent them from being very good and clever girls ; 
but I despised them. Having, moi-eover, hit upon the idea 
of frankness, and canying the application of it to extremes 
in my own case, I accused Liubotchka, with her peaceful, 
trusting nature, of seci’ecy, because she saw no necessity for 
digging 'up and examining all her thoughts and sihritual 
instincts. For example, it seemed to me all excessive 
hypocrisy when Liubotchka made the sign of the cross over 
papa eveiT night, and when she and Katenka wept in the 
ch.apel when they went to have the mass for mamma’s soul, 
and when Katenka sighed and rolled hei- eyes when she 
played on the piano ; and I asked myself. When did they 
learn to dissimulate thus like .gi'own-up people, and why 
were they not ashamed of themselves 'f 


316 


YOUTH. 


CHAPTER XXX. 

MY OCCUPATIONS. 

In spite of this, I came into nearer relations with our 
young ladies that summer than in other years, by reason of 
a passion for music which had made its appearance in me. 
That spring, a young man, a neighbor, came to call upon ns 
in the country, who had no sooner entered the drawing-room 
than he began to gaze nt the piano, and to move his chair 
imperceptibly towards it as he conversed, among others, 
with Mimi and Katenka. Having discussed the weather, 
and the pleasures of conntiyr life, he skilfully led the con- 
versation to a tuner, to music, to the piano, and tinally he 
announced that he played ; and very soon he had executed 
three waltzes, while Liubotchka, Mimi, and Katenka stood 
around the piano and looked at him. This young man never 
came again ; but his playing pleased me extremely, and his 
attitude at the piano, and the way he shook his hair, and, in 
particular, the manner in which he took octaves with his left 
hand, swiftly extending his thumb and little linger over the 
space of the octave, then slowly drawing them away, and 
again briskly extending them. This graceful gesture, his 
careless pose., the way he tossed his hair, and the attention 
which our ladies paid to his talent, inspired me with the idea 
of playing on the piano. Having convinced myself, in con- 
sequence of this idea, that 1 had talent and a passion for 
music, I undertook to learn. In this respect, I behaved like 
millions of the male and especially of the female sex, who 
study without a good teacher, without a real vocation, and 
without the slightest comprehension of what art can give, 
and of how necessary it is to a})})ly to it in order that it may 
furnish something. Music, or rather playing on the piano, 
was for me a means of captivating girls through their feel- 
ings. With the help of Katenka, who taught me my notes 
and broke my thick fingers in a little, in which process, by 


YOUTH. 


317 


the way, T consumed two months of such zeal that I even 
exercised my disobedient fourth finger on my knee at dinner 
and on my pillow in bed, 1 at once began to play pieces^ 
and played them, of course, soulfully {acec dme) , as even 
Katenka confessed, but utterly out of time. 

The choice of pieces was familiar, — waltzes, galops, ro- 
mances, arrangements, and so forth, — all by those pleasing 
composers of which any man possessed of a little healthy 
taste will select a little pile for 3^011 from the heaps of veiy 
beautiful things in the music-shops, and sa}^ ‘‘ These are 
what you must not pla3^ because nothing worse, more taste- 
less, and more senseless was ever written on music-paper;” 
and which 3^011 find upon the pianoforte of eveiy young Rus- 
sian lady, probal)l\' for that veiy reason. We had, it is true, 
the unhappy ‘‘Senate Pathetique,” and Beethoven’s sonatas 
in C-minor, which are forever being murdered b3’3’oung ladies, 
and which Linbotchka played in memory of mamma, and 
other fine things, which her Moscow teacher had given her; 
but there were also compositions by this teacher, absurd 
marches and galops, which Linbotchka i)laved as well. 
Katenka and 1 did not like serious things, and preferi-ed, 
to every thing else, “ Le Fou ” and the “ Nightingale,” 
which Katenka played in such a manner that her fingers 
were not visible, and I already began to play quite loudly 
and connectedl3\ I acquired the young man’s gestures, 
and often mourned because there were no strangers to 
look on when I was playing. But Liszt and Kalkbrenner 
soon pi’oved be3a)nd my powers, and I perceived the impos- 
sibility of overtaking Katenka. Fancying, in consequence 
of tliis, that classical music was easier, and partly for the 
sake of originality, 1 all at once came to the conclusion that 
I liked learned German music, began to go into raptures 
when Linbotchka played the “Sonate Pathetique,” although, 
to tell the truth, this sonata had long ago excited 1113^' ex- 
treme disgust. I began to play Beethoven myself, and to 
pronounce it Beeethocen. But through all this muddle and 
hypocrisy, as 1 now recall, there was something in the natui’e 
of talent in me, for music often produced on me an effect 
sufficiently powerful to call forth tears, and the things which 
pleased me 1 could manage to pick out upon the piano with- 
out notes ; so that, if any one had then taught me to look 
upon music as an end, as an independent enjoyment, and 
not as a means of fascinating girls by the swiftness and 


318 


YOUTH. 


sentiment of my execution, I might, perhaps, have actually 
become a very i-espectable musician. 

The perusal of French romances, of which Volodya had 
brought down a great many, was another of my occupations 
during this summer. At that time “Monte Ciisto’’ and 
various “ Mysteries ” had just begun to make their appear- 
ance ; and 1 buried myself in the romances of Sue, Dumas, 
and Paul de Kock. All the most unnatural i)ersonages and 
occurrences were as living for me as reality ; and I not only 
did not dare to suspect the author of lying, but the author 
himself did not even exist for me, but living, acting people 
and adventures appeared before me out of the printed book. 
If I had never anywhere met people like those 1 read about, 
still I did not for a second doubt their existence. 

I discovered in myself all the passions which were de- 
scribed, and a likeness to all the characters, and to the 
heroes and the villains of every romance, as a sensitive man 
finds in himself all the symptoms of all possible diseases 
when he reads a medical book. What pleased me in these 
romances was the artful thoughts and fiery sentiments, the 
genuine characters : the good man was thoroughly good, the 
bad man was as thoroughly bad : exactly as I fancied people 
were in my early youth. It pleased me vei’y, very much, that 
this was all in French, and that I could remember and quote, on 
the occasion of a noble deed, the magnanimous words uttered 
by the noble heroes. How many different French phrases 
I concocted with the aid of those romances, for Kolpikoff if I 
should ever encounter him again, and for her^ when 1 should 
at length meet her, and declare my love to her ! I pi’ei)ared 
such things to say to them, that they would have died on 
hearing me. On the foundation of these novels I even con- 
structed new ideals of the moral worth which I wished to 
attain to. Most of all, I desired to be “ noble ” in all my 
deeds and behavior (I say noble, and wotblagorocInvH, because 
the French word has another meaning, which the Germans 
understood when they adoi)ted the woi’d noheJ? and did not 
confound it with ehrlich) ; next to be pnssiouate ; and lastlv, 
to be what I already had an inclination to be, as comme il 
faut as possible. I even endeavored to lesemble, in mv per- 
sonal appearance and habits, the heroes who possessed any 
of these qualities. I remember that in one, out of the hun- 

5 Nnhel means noble, generous. Ehrlich signifies honest, honorable, faithful and 
so forth. ’ 


\ 


YOUTH. 


319 


dreds of novels which I read tliat summer, there was an 
excessively passionate hero, with thick eyebrows ; and Iso 
much desired to be like him externally (I felt myself to be 
exactly like him morally), that, as 1 examined my eyebrows 
in the miiTor, it occurred to me to cut them a little, in order 
that they might grow thicker; but wlien I began to cut them 
1 chanced to shear away more in one place. I had to trim 
it down evenly ; and when that was accomplished I looked 
ill the glass, and beheld myself, to my horror, without any 
eyebrows, and consequently very ugly indeed. However, I 
took comfort in the hope that my brows would soon grow 
out thick, like the passionate man’s, and was only disturbed 
as to what our family would cay when the}^ should see me 
without my eyebrows. 1 got some powder from Volodya, 
rubbed it on my eyebrows, and set fire to it. Although the 
powder did not flash up, I was sufficiently like a person who 
has been burned. No one suspected my trick, and my brows 
really did grow out much thicker after 1 had foigotten the 
passionate man. 


320 


YOUTH. 


CHAPTER XXXL 

COMME IL FACT. 

Several times already, in the course of this narrative, I 
have referred to the idea corresponding to this h'rench head- 
iijg ; and now I feel the necessity of devoting a whole chapter 
to this idea, which was one of the most false and pernicious 
with which 1 was inoculated by education and societ}’. 

Tlie human race may be separated into man}’ classes, — 
into rich and poor, good and bad, soldiers and civilians, into 
clever people and stupid, and so on. But every man, with- 
out exception, has his own favorite principal subdivisions 
under which he mechanically classes each new individual. 
My chief and favorite subdivision of people, at the time of 
which I write, was into people who were comme il faut^ and 
people who were comme il ne faiit pas. The second class 
was again subdivided into people who were simply not comme 
il font, and the common people. People who were comme H 
font., I considered worthy of holding equal intercourse with 
me ; as for the second class, I pretended to despise them, 
but in reality I hated them, and cherished towards them a 
certain sense of personal injury ; the third did not exist for 
me — 1 scorned them utterly. My comme il faut consisted 
first and chiefly in an excellent knowledge of the French 
tongue, and a good pronunciation in particular. A man who 
did not pronounce hh-ench well instantly awakened a feeling 
of hatred in me. “ Why do yon want to talk like us, when 
you don’t know how?” I asked him mentally, with biting 
irony. The second condition of comme il faut was long, 
clean, polished finger-nails ; a third was a knowledge of how 
to bow, dance, and converse ; a fourth, and very important 
one, was indifference to every thing, and the constant ex- 
pression of a certain elegant, scornful ennui. Besides these, 
1 had general indications, by means of which I decided with- 
out having spoken to a man, to which class he belonged. 


YOUTH. 


321 


The chief of these, besides the arrangernent of his room, liis 
seal, ills handwriting, and his equipage, vvas his feet. The 
relations of his boots to his trousers immediately settled the 
status of the man in my eyes. Boots without heels, with 
pointed toes, and trousers with narrow bottoms, and witliout 
straps, — this was common; boots with round, narrow toes 
and heels, and trousers narrow below with straps surrounding 
the feet, or wide with straps which arched over the toes like 
canopies, — this was a man of maiic<iis (jenre ; and so on. 

It is strange that this idea should have so deeply inoculated 
me, who was decidodl}^ disqualilied to be conime il font. But 
l)erhaps the very reason that it took such deep root in me was 
because it cost me vast labor to acquire this comme il fant. 
It is fearful to recall how much of my priceless time at the 
best period of life, sixteen, 1 wasted in the acquirement of 
this quality. It all seemed to come easily to all those whom 
1 imitated, — Volodya, Dubkoff, and the greater part of my 
acquaintances. 1 gazed at them with envy, and labored 
secretl}" at the French tongue, at the art of bowing, without 
regard to the person 1 bowed to, at conversation, at dancing, 
at cultivating indifference and ennui., at my fyiger-nails, — 
where 1 cut my flesh with the scissors, — and all the while I 
felt that much labor ^mt remained before I should attain my 
object. But as for my room, my writing-table, my equipage 
— all these I did not in the least know how to arrange in 
such a manner that the}' should be comme il fnut, although I 
strove to attend to it, in spite of my repugnance to practical 
matters. But it seemed as though these troubles all settled 
themselves excellently with every one else, and as though 
they could not be otherwise. I remember, once, after arduous 
and fruitless labor over my nails, asking Dubkoff, whose 
nails were wo iderfully fine, whether they had been so long, 
and how he managed it. Dubkoff replied, ‘‘ I have never done 
any thing, ns far back as I can remember, to make them so, 
and I don’t understand how any nice man can have any other 
kind of nails.” This answer wounded me deeply. I did 
not then know that one of the chief conditions of being 
co 7 nme il fant is secrecy with regard to the labors with 
which that comme il font is obtained. Conune il fant was 
not only a great merit, in- my opinion, a very fine quality, a 
perfection which I desired to attain, but it was the indispens- 
able condition in life, without which there could be neither 
happiness, nor glory, nor any thing good in the world. 1 


322 


YOUTH. 


should not have respected a renowned artist, nor a mvant., 
nor a benefactor of the human race, if he liad not been 
comme il font. The man who was comme il fmt stood in- 
comparably higher than they ; he allowed them the liberty of 
painting pictures, wiiting music and books, of doing good ; 
he even praised them for so doing, for why should not good 
be pi'aised, in whatever it consisted? but he could not stand 
on one level with them : he was comme il faut, and they were 
not, and that was enough. It even seems to me that if we 
had had a brother, a mother, or a father who was not comme 
il font., I should have said it was a misfortune, but that there 
could be nothing in common between them and me. But 
neither the loss of golden time, employed in constant worry 
over the observation of all the conditions of comme il fiat 
which were so difficult for me, which excluded every serious 
interest, nor the hatred and contempt for nine-tenths of the 
human race, nor the lack of attention to ail the fine deeds 
which took place outside the circle of the comme il faiit^ — 
this was not the chief harm which this idea did me. The 
chief harm consisted in the conviction that co7nme il feint is a 
fixed positioi:^,in society ; that a mnn need not exert himself to 
become either an official or a Cartwright, a soldier or a sovont., 
if he is comme il font; that, having once attained this state, 
he has fulfilled his vocation, and has even placed himself 
above the level of the majority of mankind. 

At a certain period of adolescence, after many blunders 
and distractions, every man, as a rule, feels the necessity 
of taking an active part in social life, selects some branch of 
industr}^ and devotes himself to it ; but this rarely happens 
with a man comme il font. I have known, and I still know, 
many, very many old peoide^who are [)roud, self-confident, 
sharp in their judgments, who, if the question were put to 
them in the other world, ‘‘Who are you? AVhat have you 
done there below?” would -not be able to return any other 
answer than, nn homme tr^s comme il font" (1 was 

a thoroughly genteel man). 

This fate awaited me. 


YOUTH. 


323 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

YOUTH. 


Notwithstanding the jumble of ideas which passed through 
my bi’aiii, 1 was young that summer, innocent, free, aiid 
therefore almost happy. Sometimes, and tolerably often 
too, I rose early. (1 slept in the open air on the terrace, 
and the brilliant, oblique rays of the morning sun awakened 
me.) I dressed myself rajudly, took a towel and a volume 
of French romance under my arm, and went for a bath in 
tlie river, under the shadow of a birch grove, which was half 
a verst distant from the house. Then I stretched myself 
out upon the grass in the shade, raising my eyes now and 
then h'om my book to glance at the surface of the river, 
which purpled in the shadows as it began to 'undulate be- 
neath the morning breeze ; at the field of yellowing grain ; 
at the opposite shore ; at the bright-red morning rays of 
light, which tinged lower and ever lower the trunks of the 
beeches, which, hiding one behind the other, retreated from 
me towards the fresh depths of the wood : an.d I enjoyed the 
consciousness of the same fresh young force of life within 
myself which breathed forth from nature all about me. 
AVhen tiny gray morning clouds filled the heavens, and I 
shivered after my bath, I often set out on a pathless tramp 
across forest and meadow, wetting my boots through and 
through with delight in the fresh dew. At that time, I 
indulged in vivid dreams of heroes from the last romance 
I had read, and fancied myself now a colonel, now a minis- 
ter, then a wonderfully strong man, then a man of passions; 
and I kept glancing round incessantl 3 ', in some trepidation, 
in the hope of suddenly meeting her somewhere in some 
meadow, or behind some tree. When, in the course of such 
wanderings, I came across some peasants or peasant women 
at work, although the common peojde did not exist for me, I 
always experienced a powerful, involuntary emotion, and 


824 


YOUTIL 


tried not to let them see me. When it had become hot, but 
our ladies had not yet made their appearance for tea, I often 
went into the orchard or the garden, to eat whatever vegeta- 
bles and fruits were ripe. And this occupation furnished 
me with one of my chief pleasures. In the apple-orchard, 
perhaps you have crept into the very midst of a tall, thick, 
overgrown raspberry-bush. Overhead is the liot, clear sky ; 
all around is tlie pale-green, thorny verdure of the rasi)berry- 
bush, mingled with weeds. The dark-green nettle, with its 
thin, flowery crest, stretches gracefully upwards ; the claw- 
like burdock, with its unnatural, prickly, purple flowers, grows 
rankly above the raspberry-bush and higher than your head, 
and here and there, in company with the nettle, reaches even 
to the luxuriantly drooping, pale-green boughs of the old 
apple-tree, high up upon which, close to the hot sun, apples, 
round, shining as though made of bone, but still immature, 
are ripening. Below, a young raspberry-bush, leafless and 
almost dry, twists and turns as it reaches out towards the 
sun, green, needle-like spears of grass thrusting tliemselves 
between the last year’s leaves, and all, besprinkled with dew, 
grow green and rich in the eternal shade, as though they did 
not know how l)rightly the sun is playing upon the apples. 

In this Biifcket, it is always damp : it is redolent of dense 
and constant sliade, of spiders’ webs and windfalls of a])ples, 
which alread}^ lie blackening upon the rotting earth ; of rasp- 
berries. and sometimes of the bugs, which you swallow un- 
wittingly with 3’our berry, — after which, you eat another as 
speedily as possil)le. As 3^011 advance, you frighten the 
sparrows who always dwell in this thicket ; 3^011 hear their 
anxious twittering, and the beating of their swift, tin3^ wdiigs 
against the branches ; 3^011 hear in one spot the hum of tlie 
wasp, and, somewhere on the paths, the footstep of the gar- 
dener, of Akim the little fool, and his perpetual purring to 
himself; 3"ou think to yourself, ‘‘No! neither he nor any 
one in the world can find me here.” With both hands, you 
pick tlie juic3' berries right and left from their white, conical 
stalks, and swallow them with delight one after the other. 
Your legs are wet through, far above the knee ; 3^0111- head is 
full of some friglitful nonsense or other (3^011 repeat men- 
tall3\ a thousand times in succession, ‘‘ A-a-n-d to-00-0 
twen-t3^-3"-v, a-a-n-d to-00-0 se-e-v-ee-en ”) ; 3^0111’ arms and 
legs are drip[nng ; your trousers are stinging hot with net- 
tles ; the perpendicular rays of the sun, which have pcnc- 


YOUTH. 


825 


trated the thicket, begin to burn your head ; your desire to 
eat has long since vanished, and 3'ou sit on in the wilderness, 
and listen and look and meditate, and mechanically pull off 
and swallow still more berries. 

I generally went to the drawing-room at eleven, usually 
after tea, when the ladies were already seated at their work. 
Around the first window, curtained with a blind of un- 
bleached linen, through a crevice of which the brilliant sun 
casts such dazzling, fiery circles on every thing which comes 
in its way that it pains the eyes to look at them, stands the 
embroidery-frame, over whose white linen the files promenade 
l)eacefully. At the frame sits Mimi, shaking her head inces- 
santly, in an angry manner, and moving from place to place 
to escape the sun, which, suddenly breaking through some- 
where or other, casts a burning streak of light now on her 
hand, now on her face. Through the other three windows it 
falls, with the shadows of the frames, in full, brilliant, 
square patches. Upon one of these, on the unpainted floor 
of the drawing-room, lies IMilka, from ancient habit, and 
liricks up her ears and watches the flies as the}^ walk about 
over the square of light. Katenka knits or reads, as she 
sits on the sofa, and flourishes her white hands, which seem 
transparent in the bright light, impatientl}', or shakes her 
head, with a frown, in order to drive off the flies which have 
crawled into her thick golden locks and are fluttering there. 
Liubotchka either paces back and forth in the room, with 
her hands behind her, waiting until they shall go into the 
garden, or plays some piece upon the piano, with every note 
of which I have long lieen familiar. I seat myself some- 
where, and listen to the music or the reading, and wait until 
I can sit down to the piano myself. After dinner I occa- 
sionally condescended to ride on horseback with the girls (f 
considered walking exercise unsuitable to m}^ age and posi- 
tion in the world) ; and our excursions, during which 1 led 
them tlnough extraordinary places and I'avines, were very 
pleasant. Sometimes we had adv^entures, in which 1 exhib- 
ited great hraveiy, and the ladies praised m3' riding and my 
daring, and regarded me as their protector. ]n the evening, 
if there are no ^dsitors, after tea, which we drink in the 
shady veranda, and after a stroll with papa on the business 
of the estate, I lie down in my old place on the veranda, and 
read and dream, as of old, as I listen to Katenka’s and Liu- 
botchka’s music. Jbometimes when I am left alone in the 


326 


YOU TIL 


dra wing-room, mid Liubotchka is playing some ancient music, 
I drop my book, and, gazing tlirough the open door of the 
balcony at the curling, drooping boughs of the loft}' beeches, 
upon which the shadows of evening are already falling, and 
at the pure heavens, in which, if you gaze fixedly, a dusty 
yellowish spot seems to' appear all at once, and vanish again, 
and lending an ear to the sounds of music from the hall, to 
the creaking of the gate, the voices of women and the herd 
returning to the village, I suddenly recall Natalya Savischna 
vitli great vividness, and mamma, and Karl Ivanitch, and 
for a moment 1 feel sad. But my soul is so full of life 
and hope at this period, that these memories only brush me 
with their wings, and soai' away. 

After supper, and sometimes after a walk by night in the 
garden with some one, — 1 was afraid to traverse the dark 
alleys alone, — I went off alone to sleep on the floor of the 
veranda, which afforded me great pleasure, in si)ite of the 
millions of mosouitoes which devoured me. When the moon 
was at the full, I often spent whole nights seated on my 
mattress, gazing at the lights and shadows, listening to the 
stillness and the noises, 'dreaming of various subjects, espe- 
cially of poetic and voluptuous bliss, which then seemed to 
me to be the highest hai)piness in life, and grieving because, 
up to this time, it had been granted to me to imagine it only. 
Sometimes when all have but just dis[)ei‘sed, and the lights 
in the drawing-room have been transferred to the ui)per 
chambers, whei'e feminine voices, and the sound of windows 
opening and shutting, have become audible, I betake myself 
to the gallery, and pace it listening eagerly to all the sounds 
of the house as it lapses into sleep. So long as there is the 
smallest, unfounded hope of a bliss, even though incomjjlete, 
such as that I dream of, I cannot calmly construct an ima- 
ginary bliss for myself. 

At every sound of naked feet, at every cough, sigh, touch 
given to a window, or rustle of a dress, I spring from my 
bed, I hearken like a robber, I peer about, and become agi- 
tated without any visible cause. But now tlie lights dis- 
appear in the upper window's ; the sounds of footsteps and 
conversation are replaced by snores ; the night-watchman 
begins to tap upon his board ; the garden grows more 
gloomy, and yet brighter, as the streaks of red light fiom 
the windows disappear from it; the last candle fiits from the 
pantry to the ante-room, throwing a strip of light upon the 


YOUTH. 


327 


dewy garden ; and through the window i can sec the bent 
figure of Foka, on his way to bed, clad in a wrapper, and 
with a candle in his hands. I often took a great and agi- 
tating delight in creeping over the damp grass, in the black 
shadow of the house, approaching the v\’indow of the ante- 
room, and listening, as I held my breath, to the snores of the 
boy, the groans of Foka, who supposed that no one could 
hear him, and the sound of his aged voice as he recited 
prayers for a long, long time. At length his last candle was 
extinguished, the window was slammed to, and I remained 
quite alone ; and glancing about on all sides, to see whether 
there was a white Avonian anywhere, beside the clumps of 
shrubbery or beside my bed, I hastened to the veranda 
at a trot. And sometimes 1 lay on my bed with my face to 
the garden, and, covering myself as much as possible from the 
mosquitoes and bats, I gazed into the garden, listened to 
the sounds of the night, and dreamed of love and bliss. 

Then every thing acquired another meaning for me ; and 
the sight of the ancient beeches, as their branches on one 
side shone in the light of the moonlit heavens, on the otlier 
side casting black shadows over the bushes and the road ; and 
the calm, splendid gleam of the pond increasing like a sound ; 
and the moonlit gleam of dewdrops upon the flowers in front 
of the veranda, which threw their graceful shadows across 
the gray beds ; and the sound of the snipe beyond the pond ; 
and the voice of a man on the highway ; and the quiet, 
almost inaudible scra})ing of two old beeches against each 
other; and the hum of a mos(iuito over my ear and beneath 
tlie coverlet; and the fall of an apple whicli has been caught 
on the dry bough, upon the dry leaves; and the hops of the 
frogs whi('h sometimes even got so far as the veranda steps, 
and shone rather mystei’iously in the moonlight with their 
green backs. — all this assumed a strange significance for 
me, the significan(*e of a beauty too great, and of an endless 
happiness. And then .s/m appeared, with a long black braid 
of hair, a swelling bosom, always sad and veu’v beautiful, 
with bare arms and voluptuous embraces. She loved me, 
and for one moment of her love I sacrificed my whole life. 
But the moon rose higher and higher, brigliter and brighter 
in the sky ; the gorgeous gleam of the i)ond, swelling like a 
sound, became clearer and clearer ; the shadows grew blacker 
and blacker, the light more and more transparent: and as I 
looked upon and listened to it all, something told me that she 


328 


YOUTH. 


with her bare arms and fiery embrace was far, very far from 
being the whole of happiness, that love for her w^as far, very 
far from being all of bliss ; and the more I gazed upon tiie 
high, full moon, the more and more lofty, the purer and 
purer, the nearer and nearer to Him, to the source of all 
beauty and bliss, did true beauty and bliss seem to me ; and 
tears of an unsatisfied but agitated joy rushed to my eyes. 

And still 1 was alone, and still it seemed to me that this 
mysteriously magnificent nature, the bright sphere of the moon 
which draws one to her, and hangs in a lofty but uncertain 
spot in the pale blue heavens, and yet seems to stand every- 
where as though filling with itself all immeasurable space, 
and J, an insignificant worm, already stained with all poor, 
petty earthly passions, but endowed also with a boundlessly 
compelling power of imagination and of love, — it seemed to 
me at such moments, as though nature and the moon and I 
were all one and the same. 


YOUTH. 


329 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 

NEIGHBORS. 

I HAD been very much surprised, the first day we were in 
the country, that papa should call the I^pifanoffs fine people, 
and still more surprised that he should go to their house. 
There was a lawsuit of long standing between us and the 
Epifanoffs. I had heard papa rage over this lawsuit many 
a time when I was a child, storm at the Epifanoffs, and sum- 
mon various people to defend him against them, as I under- 
stood it; I had heard Yakov call them our enemies, and 
serfs; ^ and I remember how mamma requested that no men- 
tion of these people might be made in her house or in her 
presence. 

On these data I had constructed for myself, in my child- 
hood, such a fine and clear idea that the Epifanoffs were our 
enemies^ who were ready not only to cut papa’s throat or to 
strangle him, but that of his son also if they could catch him, 
and that they were black people in the literal sense of the 
word, that when I beheld AvdoU'a Vasilievna Epifanoff, 
la belle Flamande, waiting upon mamma the year she died, 
it was with difficult}’ that I could believe that she was one of 
that family of black people ; and I still retained the basest 
opinion of this family. Although we often met them in the 
course of this summer, I continued to be strongly prejudiced 
against the whole family. In reality, this was what the 
Epifanoffs were. The family consisted of the mother, a 
widow of fifteen years’ standing, who was still a fresh and 
merry old lady, the beautiful daughter Avdotya Vasilievna, 
and a stuttering son, Piotr Vasilievitch, who was a retired 
lieutenant, and a bachelor of a very serious character. 

Anna Dmitrievna Epifanoff had lived apart from her hus- 
band for twenty years before his death, sometimes in Peter- 
burg, where she had relatives, but for the most part in her 

^ TS:hernule liudi, black people. 


380 


YOUTIL 


village of Muitishclia, which was situated at a distance of three 
versts from us. Such horroi'S were related in the neighbor- 
hood about her manner of life, that Messalina was an inno- 
cent child ill comiiarison with lier. In consequence of this, 
mamma requested that even the name ot the Epifanova might 
not be mentioned in her house ; but siieaking entirely without 
irony, it was impossible to believe even a tenth part of the 
most malicious of all possible scandals, — the scandals of 
neiglibors in the country. But when 1 knew Anna Dmitrievna, 
although she had in the house a peasant business manager 
named Mitiuscha. who was always pomaded and curled, and 
dressed in a coat after tlie C'ircassian fashion, who stood 
beliind Anna Dmitrievna’s chair at dinner, while she fre- 
(piently invited her guests in Eiencli in his presence to 
admire his handsome eyes and mouth, there was nothing of 
the soi't which rumor continued to talk about. In fact, it 
aiipears that for the last ten yeai’s, from the time, indeed, 
when Anna Dmitrievna had recalled her dutiful son Petruscha 
from the service, she had entirely changed her manner of 
life. 

Anna Dmitrievna’s estate was small, a hundred souls in all, 
and her expenses during her gay life were la.rge, so that ten 
years before this, of course, the mortgages and double mort- 
gages on her estate had fallen due, and its sale by auction 
was unavoidable. Fancying in these extremities that the 
ti’usteeship, the inventory of the estate, the arrival of the 
judge, and such like unpleasantnesses arose not so much 
from her failure to })ay the interest, as from the fact that she 
was a woman, Anna Dmitrievna wrote to her son, who was 
with his regiment, to come to the rescue of his mother in this 
strait. 

Although Piotr Vasilievitch was doing so well in the service 
that he hoped soon to be earning liis own bit of bread, he 
gave up eveiy thing, went on the retii'cd list, and like a 
respectful son, who considered it as his first duty to comfort 
his mother’s old age (as he wrote with perfect sincerity in 
his letters), came to the village. 

Piotr Vasilievitch, in spite of his homely face, his awk- 
wardness. and his stutter, was a man of very firm principles, 
and remarkable practical sense. lie kept possession of the 
property by means of small loans, temporizing, prayers, and 
promises. Having turned property-owner, Piotr Vasilievitch 
donned his father’s fur-lined coat which had been laid up in 




331 


the storeroom, got rid of his horses and carriages, langiit 
visitors not to come to Muitishcha, dug drains, increased the 
arable land, cut down the peasants’ allutments, felled his 
woods and sold them in a bnsiness-like way, and got his 
affairs into oirler. l^iotr Vasilievitch took a vow, and kept 
it, that, until all the debts were paid, he would wear no other, 
clothes than his father’s bekesclui. (coat), and a canvas pale- 
tot which he made for himself, and that he would not rida 
in any other way than in n telega with the peasants’ work- 
horses. lie endeavored to impose this stoical manner of life 
upon all the family, in so far as his servile res[)ect for his 
mother, which he considered his dut}’, pei’initted. In the 
drawing-room he stammered, and conducted himself in the 
most slavish manner towards his mother, fulfilled all her 
wishes, scolded peo[)Ie if they did not do wliat Anna Dmi- 
trievna commanded ; l)ut in his own stnd}^ and in the otlice, 
he called every one to strict account because a duck had been 
S(‘nt to the table without his orders, or because a muzhik had 
been sent by Anna Dmiti’ievna to inquire after some neigh- 
i or’s health, or because the peasant girls had been sent to 
the woods for raspberries, instead of being at work weeding 
the garden. 

In the course of three years, all the debts had been paid, 
and Piotr Vasilievitch returned from a trip to Moscow in 
new clothes and a tarantass. But in spite of this flourish- 
ing state of affairs, he still retained the same stoical procliv- 
ities, in which he seemed to take a glowing i)ride before his 
own family and strangers ; and he often said with a stutter, 
“Any one who i-eally wants to see me will be glad to see 
me in my tulup,^ and he will also eat my cabbage-soup and 
gruel — I eat them,” he added. Every word and movement 
expressed pride founded ni)on the consciousness that he had 
sacrificed himself for his mother, and had redeemed the prop- 
erty, and scorn for others because they had done nothing of 
the sort. 

The charact^'rs of the mother and daughter were totally 
unlike this, and they differed from each other in many re- 
spects. The mother was one of the most agreeable and 
clieerful women in society, and always equably good-natured. 
She really rejoiced in every thing that was gay {ind pleasing. 
She even possessed, in the highest degree, the capacity of 
enjoying the sight of young people making merry, which is a 

1 Sheepskin coat. 


332 


YOUTH. 


trait encountered only in the most good-natured old people. 
Her daughter, Avdotya Vasilievna, on the contrary, was of 
a serious character ; or, rather, she possessed that peculiarly 
indifferent, dreamy disposition, united to haughtiness which 
was utterly without grounds, and which unmarried beauties 
generally possess. When she wished to be gay, her mirth 
proved rather sti-ange, as though she were laughing at herself, 
at those with whom she spoke, or at all the world, which she 
assuredly did not mean to do. I often wondered and ques- 
tioned myself as to what she meant by such phrases as these : 
“Yes, I am awfully handsome; of course everybody is in 
love with me,” and so on. Anna Dmitrievna was always 
active. She had a passion for arranging the little house 
and garden, for flowers, canaries, and pretty things. Her 
chambers and garden were not large or luxurious ; but every 
thing was so clean, so neatly arranged, and every thing bore 
sucli a general imprint of that daintily liglit mirth which 
a pretty waltz or [)olka expresses, that the word toy, which 
was often used in commendation by her guests, was particu- 
larly suited to Anna Dmitrievna’s tiny garden and apart- 
ments. And Anna Dmitrievna herself was a toy — small, 
thin, with a bright complexion, and pretty little hands, al- 
ways merry, and always becomingly dressed. Only the 
rather excessively swollen, dark-lilac veins which were traced 
upon her little hands, disturbed this general character. 

Avdotya Vasilievna, on the contrary, hardly ever did any 
thing, and not only was not fond of busying herself over 
flowers and dainty trifles, but she occupied herself too little 
with herself, and always ran off to dress when visitors arrived. 
But when she returned dressed to the room, she was remark- 
ably pretty, with the exception of the cold expression of her 
eyes and smile, which is characteristic of all very hand- 
some faces. Her strictly regular and very beautiful face 
and her stately figure seemed to be constantly sa3'ing to 
3^011, “ You may look at me, if 3^011 please.” 

But notwithstanding the vivacious character of the mother, 
and the indifferent, dreamy exterior of the daughter, some- 
thing told us that the former had never loved an3^ thing either 
now or in times past, except what was pretty and gay ; and 
that Avdotya Vasilievna was one of those natures which, if 
they once love, will sacrifice their whole life to the oue they 
love. 


YOUTH. 


333 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 
father’s marriage. 

Father was forty-eight years old when he took Avdotya 
Vasilieviia Epifanova for his second wife. 

1 fancy that when papa came alone, in the spring, to the 
country, with the girls, he was in that nervously happy and 
sympathetic state of mind in which gamblers nsnally are 
when they have ceased playing after large winnings. He 
felt that much unexhausted luck yet remained for him, 
which, if he did not care to employ it any longer on cards, 
he might expend upon general success in life. Moreover, it 
was spring ; he was unexpectedly in possession of a good deal 
of money ; he was entirely alone, and bored. In discussing 
matters with Yakov, and recalling the interminable lawsuit 
with the Epifanotfs, and the beautiful Avdotya Vasilieviia, 
whom he had not seen for a long time, I can fancy how he 
said to Yakov, “ Do you know, Yakov Kharlamitch, 1 think 
it would be better to yield that cursed piece of ground to 
them than to go on with this suit ; hey ? What do 3 'ou tliink ? ” 

I can imagine how Yakov’s fingers twisted a negative be- 
hind his back at such a question, and how he ])roved that 
“ we have tlie rights of that business, after all, I’iotr Alex- 
androvitch.” 

But papa ordered the calash to be got ready, put on his 
fashionable olive coat, brushed the remains of his hair, 
sprinkled his handkerchief witli perfume, and in the most 
cheerful frame of mind, which was inspired in him by the 
conviction that he was acting in a lordly way, and chiefly by 
the hope of seeing a pretty woman, he drove off to his 
neighbor’s. 

I only know that papa, at his visit, did not find Piotr 
Vasilievitch, who was in the fields ; and he passed an hour 
or two with the ladies. I can imagine how he overflowed 
with amiability, how he charmed them, as he tapped the 


334 


YOUTH. 


lloor witli liis soft boots, whispered, and made slieep’s-eyes. 

I can imagine, too, how the merry little old woman con- 
ceived a sudden tender affection for him, and how animated 
her cold and beautiful daughter l^ecame. 

When the maid-servant ran panting to announce to Piotr 
Vasilievitch that old Irteneff himself had come, I can ima- 
gine how he answered angril}’, Well, what of it? What 
has he come for?” and how, in consequence of this, he 
returned home as quietly as possible, and perhaps even turn- 
ing in to his study, put on his dirty paletot expressly, and 
sent word to the cook not to dare, under any circumstances 
wliatever, to make any additions to the dinner, even if the 
ladies ordered it. 

J often saw papa in Ei)ifanoff’s company afterwards, so 
that 1 can form a vivid idea of that first meeting. I can im- 
agine how, in spite of the fact that papa offered to terminate 
that suit peacefully, Piotr Vasilievitcli vvas gloomy and angry 
because he had sacrificed his career to his mother, and papa 
had done nothing of the sort, and so did not admire him in 
the least ; and how papa, pretending not to see this gloom, 
was merry and playful, and treated him as a wonderful jester, 
which at times rather offended Piotr Vasilievitch, though he 
could not help yielding to him occasionally, against his will. 
Papa, with his proclivity for turning every thing into jest, 
called Piotr Vasilievitch Colonel, for some reason or other; 
and in s[)ite of the fact that Epifanoff once remarked, in my 
presence, reddening with vexation, and stuttei-ing even worse 
than usual, that he ‘‘ was not a co-co-co-co-lonel, but a lieu- 
lieu-lieu-lieutenant,” papa called him Colonel again five min- 
utes afterwards.^ 

Liubotchka told me, that before our arrival in the village 
he saw the Epifanoffs every day, and was extremely gay. 
Papa, with his faculty for arranging every thing in a certain 
original, jesting, and at the same time sim[)le and elegant 
manner, had got up hunting and fishing paities, and some 
fireworks, at which the Epifanolfs had been [)resent. And 
things would have been jollier still, said Liubotchka, if it 
had not been for that intolerable Piotr Vasilievitch, who 
pouted and stuttered, and upset every thing. 

But that is what 1 contrived to observe during the time 


^ The touch of probability necessary to allow Irteneff to do this without seeming 
to intend a direct offence is furnished by tiie similarity of the lirst syllables of the 
words iQ Russian : polkocuik and porutuhik. 


YOUTH. 


335 


that I saw pa])a with Dunitclika, as mamma had called her. 
Papa was constantly in that happy mood which had struck 
me on the day, of our arrival. He was so gay and young, 
and full of life aiid happiness, that the beams of this happi- 
ness spread over all about him, and involuntarily intV-cted 
them with the same mood. He never went so much as a step 
apart from Avdotya Vasilievna when she was in the room, 
and paid her incessantl}^ such sweet compliments, that I felt 
ashamed for him ; or he sat gazing at her in silence, and 
twitched his shoulders in a passionate and self-satistied sort 
of way, and coughed ; and sometimes even whispered to her 
smilingly. All this was done willi that expression, that /es’i!- 
i}}(l leay, which was characteristic of him in the most serious 
mutters. 

Avdotya Vasilievna seemed to have a[)propriated to herself 
from papa the expression of happiness, which at this period 
beamed in her great blue eyes almost constantly, with the 
exception of the moments when such shyness took possession 
of her, all of a sudden, that it made me, who was acquainted 
with the feeling, pained and sorrv to look at her. At such 
moments, she visibl}" feared every glance and movement; 
it seemed to her as though every one were staring at her, 
thinking only of her, and considered every thing about her 
improper. She glanced timidly at all ; the color constantly 
flooded her face, and retreated from it ; and she began to talk 
loudh' and daringly, uttering nonsense for the most part, and 
she was conscious of it, and conscious that everybody includ- 
ing papa was listening, and then she blushed still more. But 
in such cases, papa did not even observe the nonsense, but 
went on coughing as i)assionately as ever, and gazing at her 
with joyous rapture. 1 observed that, although Avdotya’s 
fits of shyness came upon her without any cause, they some- 
times immediately followed the mention of some young and 
beautiful woman in papa’s presence, d’he constant transi- 
tions from thonghtfulness to this strange, awkward gayety 
of hers, of which I have already spoken, the repetition of 
papa’s favorite words and turns of speech, her way of con- 
tinuing with other peo])le discussions which had been begun 
with papa, all this would have exi)lained to me the relations 
which existed between papa and Avdotya V'asilievna, had the 
person in question been any one but my own father, and had 
I been a little older; but I suspected nothing, even when 
papa, on receiving in my presence a letter from Fiotr Vasilie- 


336 


YOUTH. 


vitch, was very much put out, and ceased his visits to the 
Epifanoffs until the end of August. 

At the end of August, papa “^gain began to visit our 
neighbors ; and on the day before Volodya and I set out for 
Moscow, he announced to us that he was going to marry 
Avdotya Vasilievna. 


YOUTH. 


837 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

HOW WE RECEIVED THE NEWS. 

Every one in the house had known the fact on the day 
before the official announcement, and A^arious verdicts had 
been pronounced on it. Mimi did not leave her room all 
day, and cried. Katenka sat with her, and only came out 
to dinner, with an injured expression of countenance which 
she had eA'identl}' borrowed from her mother. Liubotclika, 
on the contrary, was very cheerful, and said at dinner that 
she knew a splendid secret which she would not tell any one. 

“ There’s nothing splendid in your secret,” said Volodya, 
who did not share her satisfaction : “on the contrary, if you 
were capable of thinking of any thing serious, you would un- 
derstand that it is very bad.” Liubotclika looked at him 
intently in amazement, and said nothing. 

After dinner, Volodya wanted to take me by the arm ; but 
fearing probably that this would be too much like tenderness, 
he merely touched me on the elbow, and motioned me to the 
hall with a nod. 

“ Do you know the secret which Liubotclika mentioned? ” 
he said to me, when he had satisfied himself that we were 
alone. 

Volodya and I rarely talked to each other face to face about 
any thing serious, so that when it did happen, we felt a kind 
of mutual awkwardness, and little boys began to dance in 
our eyes, as Volodya expressed it ; but now, in answer to the 
consternation expressed in m}^ ej'es, he continued to stare 
me steadily and seriously in the eye with an expression which 
said, “ There’s nothing to be alarmed about, but we’re broth- 
ers all the same, and must consult together upon a weighty 
family matter.” I understood him, and he proceeded: 

“ Pajia is going to marry the h^pifanova, you know? ” 

I nodded, because I had already heard about it. 

“ It’s not nice at all,” went on Volodya. 


338 


YOUTH. 


“Why?” 

“Why?” he replied with vexation: “it’s very pleasant 
to have such a stammering nncle, a colonel, and all those con- 
nections. Yes, and she only seems good now ; Imt that proves 
nothing, and who knows what she’ll turn out? (j ranted that 
it makes no difference to ns, still Liubotchka must soon come 
out in the world. It’s not very pleasant with such a step- 
mother ; she even speaks Fi’ciich badly, and what manners 
she may give her ! She’s a fish-wife and nothing more : sup- 
pose she is good, she’s a fish-wife all the same,” concluded 
Volodya, evidently very much pleased with this appellation 
of “fish- wife.” 

Strange as it was to me to hear Volodya thus calmly pass 
judgment on pa[)a’s choice, it struck me that he was right. 

“ Why does i)apa marry? ” 1 inquired. 

“It’s a queer story: God only knows. All I know is, 
that Piotr Alexandrovitch persuaded him to marry, and de- 
manded it ; that i)apa did not wish to, and then he took a 
fancy to, out of some idea of chivalry : it’s a queer story. 
I have but just begun to understnnd father,” went on Volo- 
dya (his calling him “ father” instead of “ papa” wounded 
me deeply) ; ‘’that he is a very fine man, good and intelli- 
gent, but so light-minded and fickle : it’s amazing ! He 
can’t look at a woman with any coolness. AVhy, you know 
that he has never been acquainted with any woman, that he 
has not been in love with her. You know it’s so ; and even 
with ]\Iimi.” 

“ What do yon mean ? ” 

“ 1 tell you that 1 found out a while ago that he was in 
love with Mimi when she was young, wrote her vei’ses, and 
there was something between them. i\Iimi suffers to this 
day.” And Volodya liroke into a laugh. 

“ It can’t be so ! ” I said in amazement. 

“ But the chief point.” continued \b)lodya, becoming 
serious again, and beginning suddenly to speak in French, 
“ is, how agreeable such a marriage will be to all our kin ! 
And she’ll be sure to have children.” 

Volodya’s sensible view, and his foresight, startled me so 
that 1 did not know what to sa}^ in reply. 

Just then Liubotchka approached us. 

“ So you know? ” she asked, with a glad face. 

“Yes,” said Volodya; ‘A)ut I am surprised, Liubotchka. 
You are no longer a child in swaddling-clothes : how can 


YOUTH. 


339 


you feel glad that papa is going to marry a worthless 
woman ? ’ ’ 

Liubotchka suddenly looked grave, and became thoughtful. 

“Volodya! why do you say worthless? How dare you 
speak so of Avdotya Vasilievna? If papa is going to marry 
her, then of course she is not worthless.” 

“Well, not worthless; that was onl}' my way of putting 
it: but still” — 

“There’s no ‘but still’ about it,” broke in Liubotchka, 
with warmth. “ 1 didn’t say that the young lady you are in 
love with was worthless. IIow can 3^011 say it about i)apa 
and an excellent woman, even if you are 1113" eldest brotlier? 
Don’t sav that to me : you must not say it.” 

“ And why can’t one judge ” — 

“ Such a father as ours must not be judged,” inter- 
rupted Liubotchka again. “JMimi ma3^ judge, but not you, 
m3" eldest brother.” 

“ No, 3^00 understand nothing about it 3mt,” said Volod3"a 
contemptuousl3". “ Listen. Is it a good thing that some 
Epifanova, Danltclika^ should take the place of your dead 
mother? ” 

Liubotchka remained silent for a minute, and then all at 
once tears rose to her eyes. 

“ I knew that you were proud, but I did not know that 
3'ou were so wicked,” said slie, and left us. 

“ V hnlku ^ said Volo(l3'n, puiling a gravel3" comical face, 
and with troubled eyes. “Just try to argue with them,” he 
went on, as though reproaching himself for having forgotten 
himself to sucli a degree as to make u[) his mind to conde- 
scend to a conversation with Liubotchka. 

The weather was bnd on the following day, and neither 
])apa nor the ladies had c;me down for their tea when I 
entered the drawing-i’oom. There had been a cold autumnal 
rain during the niglit ; tiie remains of the clouds, which had 
emptied themselves over night, were still Hying through the 
sky ; the sun, which had ali’eady I’isen quite high, shone 
dimly through them, and was designated by a bright circle. 
Jt was windy, damp, and cold. The door was open into the 
garden ; pocJs of the night-rain were drying off the i^avement 
of the terrace, which was black with moisture. The wind 
was swinging the open door back and forth on its hinges ; 
the paths were damp and muddy" ; the old birches, with their 

1 Nonseme iu the secret jargon explained in chap. xxix. 


340 


YOUTH. 


bare white boughs, the bushes and the grass, the nettles, the 
currants, the elder, with the pale side of its leaves turned 
out, struggled each on its own spot, and seemed to want to 
tear themselves from their roots ; round yellow leaves flew, 
twisting and chasing each other, from the linden-alley, and, 
as they became wet through, spread themselves on the wet 
road, and on the damp, dark-green aftermath of the meadow. 
My thoughts were occupied with my father’s second mar- 
riage, from the point of view from which Volodya had looked 
at it. The future of my sister, our future, and even that of 
my father, promised nothing good to me. I was troubled by 
the thought that an outsider, a stranger, and, most of all, a 
young woman, who had no right to it, should all at once take 
the place, in many respects, — of whom? She was a simple 
young lady, and she was taking the place of m}^ dead mother ! 
I was sad, and my father seemed to me more and more guilty. 
At that moment, I heard his voice and Volodya’s talking in 
the butler’s pantry. I did not want to see my father just at 
that moment, and I passed out through the door; but Liu- 
botchka came for me, and said that papa was asking for me. 

He wms standing in the drawing-room, resting one hand 
on the piano, and gazing in my direction impatiently, and at 
the same time triumphantly. That expression of youth and 
happiness which I had observed upon his face during all this 
period was not there now. He looked troubled. Volodya 
w'as walking about the room with a pipe in his hand. I 
went up to my father, and said good-morning to him. 

“ Well, my friends,” he said, with decision, as he raised 
his head, and in that peculiar, brisk tone in which palpably 
disagreeable things, which it is too late to judge, are spoken 
of, “you know, 1 think, that I am going to many Avdotya 
Vasilievna.” (He remained silent for a while.) “1 never 
wanted to marry after your mamma, but ” — (he paused for 
a moment) “but — but it’s evidently fate. Dunitchka is a 
dear, kind girl, and no longer very 3"oung. I hope 3^011 will 
love her, children ; and she already loves 3’ou heartilv, and 
she is good. Now,” he said, turning to me and Volod3m, 
and apparently making haste to speak, lest we should suc- 
ceed in interrupting, “ it’s time for you to leave here ; but I 
shall remain until the new year, when I shall come to jMos- 
cow ” (again he hesitated) “ with my wife and Liubotchka.” 
It pained me to see my father seem so timid and guilty 
before us, and 1 stepped up closer to him ; but Volodya con- 


YOUTH. 


341 


tinuecl to smoke, and paced the room with droop'w;!g head. 
“ ISo, my friends, this is what yonr old man has devised,” 
concluded papa, as he blushed and coughed, and pressed 
Volodya’s hand and mine. There were tears in his eyes when 
he said it ; and I observed that the hand which he extended 
to Volodya, who was at the other end of the room at the 
moment, trembled a little. The sight of this trembling hand 
impressed me painfully, and a strange thought occurred to 
me, and touch'ed me still more: the thought came to me 
that papa had served in the year T2, and had been a brave 
officer, as was well known. I retained his large, muscular 
hand, and kissed it. He pressed mine vigorously ; and, 
gulping down his tears, he suddenl}’ took Liubotchka’s black 
head in both hands, and began to kiss her on the eyes. 
A"olod3^a pretended to drop his pipe ; and, stooping over, he 
slyly wiped his eyes with his fist, and left the room, making 
an effort to do so unobserved. 


342 


YOUTH. 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 

THE UNIVERSITY. 

The wedding was to take place in two weeks ; but our 
lectures had begun, and Volodya and I went back to Moscow 
at the beginning of September. The Nekhliudoffs had also 
returned from the countiy. Dmitri (we had promised when 
we parted to write to each other, and of course we had not 
done so a single time) immediately came to me, and we 
decided that, on the following day, he should take me to the 
university for my first lecture. 

It was a brilliant, sunny day. 

As soon as I entered the auditorium, I felt that my per- 
sonality disappeared in this throng of gay 3'Oung fellows 
which undulated noisily through all the doors and corridors 
in the brilliant sunlight. The sensation of knowing that I 
was a member of this large company was very pleasant. 
Put very few among all these individuals were known to me, 
and the acquaintance was limited to a nod of the head, and 
the words, “ How are you, Irteneff?” But, all around me, 
they were shaking hands with each other and chatting, — 
words of friendship, smiles, good-will, jests, showered from 
all quarters. Everywhere I was conscious of the bond which 
united all this youthful company, and I felt sadly that this 
bond had missed me in some way. But this was only a 
momentary impression. In consequence of this and of the 
vexation thereby engendered, on the contrary, I even dis- 
covered very speedily that it was a very good thing that I 
did not belong to this outre society ; that I must have my 
own little circle of nice people ; and I seated myself on the 
third bench, where sat Count B., Baron Z., Prince P., Ivin, 
and other gentlemen of that class, of whom I knew only 
Ivin and the Count. I set about observing all that went on 
around me. SemenofF, with his gray, rumi)led hair and his 
white teeth, and with his coat unbuttoned, sat not fai from 


YOUTH. 


343 


me, propping himself up on his elbows, and gnawing at a 
pen. The gymnasist, who had stood first in the examina- 
tion, was sitting upon the first bench, with his neck still 
bound up in the black neckcloth, and playing with a silver 
watch'key upon his satin vest. Ikonin, who had got into 
the university, was seated on the highest bench, in blue 
trousers with spring bottoms, laughing and shouting that he 
was on Tarnassus. Ilinka, who, to my amazement, saluted 
me not only coldly, but even scornfully, as if desirous of 
reminding me that we were all equal here, seated himself in 
front of me, and, putting up his thin legs upon the bench 
ill a particularly free- and easy way (for my benefit, as it 
seemed to me) , chatted with another student, and glanced at 
me now and then. 

The Ivin part}' beside me conversed in French. These 
gentlemen seemed to me frightfully stupid. Every word of 
their conversation which I overheard not onl}' seemed to me 
senseless but incorrect, simply not French at all. Ce 
7 i’est pas frangais.” 1 said to myself in my own mind) ; and 
the attitudes, speeches, and behavior of Semenoff, Ilinka, 
and others, seemed to me ignoble, ungeiitlemaiily, not 
“ comme il faiit.” 

I did not belong to any company ; and conscious of my 
isolation, and my unfitness for making approaches, I became 
angry. One student on the bench in front of me was biting 
his nails, which were all red with hangnails ; and this'seemed 
so revolting to me that I even moved my seat farther away 
from him. But in my inmost soul I remember that this first 
day was a very doleful one for me. 

When the iirofessor entered, and all began to rustle about, 
and then became silent, I remember that I extended my 
satirical view of things to the professor, and 1 was surprised 
that the professor should begin his lecture with an intro- 
ductory phrase which had no sense, according to my opinion. 
I wanted the lecture to begin at the end, and to be so wise 
that nothing could be cut out nor a single word added to it. 
Having been undeceived in this respect, 1 immediately 
sketched eigliteen profiles, joined together in a circle like a 
wreath, under the heading, First Lecture,” inscribed in 
the handsomely bound note-book which I had brought with 
me, and only moved my hand across the paper now and then 
so that the professor (who, I was convinced, was paying a 
great deal of attention to me) might think that 1 was writing. 


844 


YOUTH. 


Having deckled, during tins same lecture, that it was not 
necessary to write down every thing that every professor 
said, and that it would even be stupid to do so, 1 kept to 
that rule during the whole of my course. 

At the succeeding lectures 1 did not feel my isolation so 
strongly ; I made many acquaintances, shook hands and 
chatted : but for some reason or other no real union took 
place between me and my comrades, and it still frequently 
happened that I was sad, and that 1 dissimulated. 1 could 
not join the company of Ivin and the aristocrats, as they 
were called, because, as I now remember, I w^as rough and 
savage with them, and only bowed to them when they bowed 
to me ; and they evidently had very little need of m3’ ac- 
quaintance. But this took place for a very ditferent reason 
with the majority. As soon as I was conscious that a com- 
rade w’as beginning to be favorably inclined tow’ards me, I 
immediatel3" gave him to understand that I dined at Prince 
Ivan Ivanitch’s, and that I had a drozhky. All this I said 
simply for the, sake of showing myself otf in a more favor- 
able light, and in order that my comrade might love me all 
the more ; but in almost every instance, on tlie contrary, to 
my amazement, my comrade suddenl}’ became proud and 
cold towards me in consequence of the news of 1113^ relation- 
ship with Prince Ivan. 

APe had among us a student maintained at the expense of 
the crowm, Operoff, a modest, extremel3^ capable, and zeal- 
ous young man, who alw’ays gave his hand to eveiy one like 
a board, without bending his fingers or making any move- 
ment with it, so that the jesters among his comrades some- 
times shook hands with him in the same way, and called it 
shaking hands “like a board.” I almost always sat beside 
him, and w’e frequently conversed. Operoff pleased me par- 
ticularly b}^ the free opinions to which he gave utterance, 
about the professors. He defined, in a very clear and cate- 
gorical manner, the merits and defects of each professor’s 
instruction ; and he even ridiculed them sometimes, wdiich 
produced a particularly strange and startling effect upon me, 
as it came from his veiy small mouth in his quiet voice. 
Nevertheless, he carefully wu-ote down all the lectures, with- 
out exception, in his minute hand. AVe had begun to make 
friends, w’e had decided to i)repare our lessons together, and 
his small, gray, short-sighted eyes had already begun to turn 
to me wdth pleasure, when I went and seated myself beside 


YOUTH. 


345 


him in my own place. But I found it necessary to explain 
to him once, in the course of conversation, that when my 
mother was dying she had begged my father not to send us 
to any institutions supported by the crown, and that all crown 
scholars, though the}’ might be very learned, were not at all 
the thing for me : “ (7e ne sont pas des gens comme il faut,” 
“The}’ are not genteel,” said I, stammering, and conscious 
that I blushed for some reason or other. Operoff said noth- 
ing to me ; but at succeeding lectures he did not greet me first, 
did not give me his board, did not address me, and when I 
seated myself iji my place he bent his head sideways on his 
finger away from the books, and pretended that he was not 
looking on. I was surprised at Operoff’s causeless coldness. 
But I considered it improper for a young man of good birth 
to coax the crown student Operoff; and 1 left him in peace, 
although his coolness grieved me, I must confess. Once I 
arrived earlier than he, and as the lecture was by a favorite 
professor, and the students who were not in the habit of 
attending lectures had flocked to it, and all the seats were 
occupied, I sat down in Operoff’s place, laid my note-l)ooks 
on the desk, and went out. On my return to the auditorium 
I was surprised to find my note-books removed to the rear 
bench, and Operoff seated in his own place. I remarked to 
him that I had laid my books there. 

“I don’t know,” he retorted, suddenly flashing up, and 
not glancing at me. 

“ I tell you that I placed my books there,” said, I pur- 
posely begin niug to get heated, and thinking to frighten him 
with my boldness. “ Everybody saw it,” 1 added, glancing 
round at the students ; but although many of them looked at 
me with curiosity, no one replied. 

“ Places are not purchased here ; the one who comes first 
takes his seat,” said Operoff, settling himself angrily in his 
place, and casting a fleeting and agitated glance upon me. 

“ That means that you are ill-bred,” said I. 

It seemed as though Operoff muttered something ; it even 
seemed as though he muttered that I was “ a stupid little 
boy,” but I certainly did not hear it. And what would have 
been the good if I had heard it? should we revile each other 
like rustic louts? (I was very fond of the word maiiant, 
and it served me as an answer and a solution in many a com- 
plicated affair.) Perhaps I might have said something more ; 
but just then the door slammed, and the professor, in his 


846 


YOUTH. 


blue frock-coat, eutered his desk with a scrape of his 
foot. 

However, when I needed the note-books, before the exam- 
inations, Operoff, remembering his promise, offered me his, 
and invited me to study them with him. 


YOUTH, 


347 


CHAPTER XXXVII. 

AFFAIRS OF THE HEART. 

Affairs of the heart engrossed my attention a good deal 
in the course of the winter. I was in love three times. Once 
I fell passionately in love with a very plnmi) ""ho rode 
in the Freytag riding-school, in consequence of which I went 
to the school every Tuesda}^ and Friday — the days on which 
she rode — in order to gaze at her ; but on every occasion I 
was so much afraid that she would see me, and for that 
reason I always stood so far away from her, and fled so 
precipitately from the place where she had to pass through, 
and turned aside so negligently when she glanced in my di- 
rection, that I did not even get a good look at her face, and 
to this day I do not know whether she was actually pretty 
or not. 

Dubkoff, who was acquainted with this lady, once caught 
me at the school hiding behind a footman, and the fur cloaks 
which he was carrying ; and having learned of my passion 
from Dmitri, he so frightened me with a proposal to intro- 
duce me to this amazon, that I fled headlong from the place ; 
and the very idea that he had told her about me jirevented 
my ever daring to enter the school again, even as far as the 
lackeys, from the fear of meeting her. 

When I was in love with strangers, and especially with 
married women, I was overwhelmed with a sln ness which was 
a thousand times more powerful than that which I had expe- 
rienced in Sonitchka’s case. I feared, more than any thing 
else in the world, that the object of my love would discover 
it, and even my existence. It seemed to me that if she heard 
of the sentiments which I entertained towards her, it would 
be such an insult to her that she would never be able to for- 
give me. And, in fact, if that amazon had known in detail 
how, when I peeped at her from behind the lackeys, I medi- 
tated seizing her, and carrying her off to the country, and 


348 


YOUTH. 


how I was going to live there with her, and wliat T was going 
to do, she might perhaps with justice have felt very much 
insulted. But 1 could not clearly imagine that if she knew 
me she would not also instantly know all my thoughts, and 
that therefore there was nothing disgraceful in simply making 
her acquaintance. 

I fell in love again with Sonitchka when I saw her with 
my sister. My second love for her had passed away long 
ago ; but I fell in love for the third time, because Liu- 
botchka gave me a volume of verses which Sonitchka had 
copied, in which many gloomily amorous passages from 
Lermontoff’s “Demon” were underlined in red ink, and 
had flowers laid in to mark them. Recalling how Volodya 
had kissed his lady-love’s little purse the year before, I tried 
to do the same ; and in fact, when, alone in my room in 
the evening, I fell into reveries, and pressed my lips to the 
flowers as I gazed upon them, I was conscious of a certain 
agreeably tearful sentiment, and was in love again, or at 
least fancied I was, for several days. 

And, finally, I fell in love for the third time that winter, 
with the 3'Oung lady with whom Volodya was in love, and 
who visited at our house. As I now recall that 3'oung lady, 
there was nothing pretty about her, and nothing of that par- 
ticular beauty which generally pleased me. She was the 
daughter of a well-known intellectual and learned lady of 
Moscow ; she was small, thin, with long blonde curls of 
English fashion, and a transparent profile. Eveiybod}^ said 
that this young lady was more clever and learned than her 
mother ; but I could form no judgment whatever on this 
point, for, feeling a kind of passion-fraught terror at the 
thought of her cleverness and learning, I only spoke to her 
once, and that with inexpressible trepidation. But the 
ecstasy of Volodya, who was never restrained by the presence 
of others in the expression of his raptures, was communi- 
cated to me with such force that I fell passionately in love 
with the young woman. As I felt that the news that two 
brothers ivere in love loith the same young woman would not 
be agreeable to Volodya, I did not mention my love to him. 
But, on the contrary, that which afforded me the greatest 
satisfaction in this sentiment was that our love was so 
pure, that, although its object was one and the same charm- 
ing being, we should remain friends, and ready, should the 
emergency occur, to sacrifice ourselves for each other. It 


YOUTH. 


349 


appeared, however, with regard to the readiness for sacrifice, 
that Volodya did not share my feeling at all ; for he was so 
passionatel}' enamoured, that he wanted to slap a genuine 
diplomat’s face, and challenge him to a duel, because he was 
to marry her, as it was said. It was very agreeable to me 
to sacrifice my feelings, probably because it cost me no 
effort, so that I only spoke to the young lady once, and that 
in a fantastic kind of way, about the worth of scientific 
music ; and my love passed away on the following week, as I 
made no endeavor to cherish it. 


850 


YOUTH, 


CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

THE WORLD. 

The worldly pleasures to whicli I had dreamed of devoting 
myself when I entered the university, in imitation of my elder 
brother, quite disenchanted me during the winter. Volodya 
danced a great deal, papa also went to balls with his young 
wife ; but they must have considered me still too youthful or 
iinlitted for such pleasures, and no one introduced me in 
those houses wlien balls were given. In spite of my promise 
of frankness to Dmitri, I did not speak to any one, even to 
him, of my desire to go to balls, and of how it pained and 
vexed me that I was forgotten, and evidently regarded as a 
philosopher, which I pretended to be in consequence. 

But in the course of the winter. Princess Kornakova had 
an evening party. She invited all of us herself, and me 
among the rest ; and I was to go to a ball for the first time. 
Volodya came to my room before he set out, and wanted to 
see how I was dressed. This proceeding on his part greatly 
surprised and abashed me. It seemed to me that the desire 
to be well dressed was very disgraceful, and that it was neces- 
sary to conceal it ; he, on the other hand, considered this 
desire natural and indispensable to such a degree, that he 
said very frankly that he was afraid I should do myself dis- 
credit. He ordered me to be sure to don varnished shoes, 
and was struck with horror when I wanted to put on chamois- 
leather gloves, arranged my watch for me in a particular way, 
and carried me off to the hair-dresser’s on the Kuznetzky 
bridge. They curled my hair: Volodya stepped off, and 
viewed me from a distance. 

“There, that’s good, but can’t you flatten down the hair 
where it parts on the crown?’’ he said, turning to the hair- 
dresser. 

But in spite of all M. Charles’s anointing of my tuft with 
some gummy essence, it stood up the same as ever when I 


YOUTH. 


351 


put on my hat ; and altogether my appearance when curled 
seemed to me much uglier even than before. My only salva- 
tion was an affectatiou of negligence. Only in this way was 
my exterior like any thing whatever. 

Volodya, it appears, was of the same oj)inion, for he 
begged me to get rid of the curls ; and when I had done this, 
and still did not look well, he-did not glance at me again, and 
was silent and gloomy all the way to the Kornakoffs’ house. 

1 entered the Kornakotfs’ apartments boldly with Volodya ; 
but when the Princess invited me to dance, and I said, for 
some reason or other, that I did not dance, in spite of the 
fact that I had come with the sole idea of (lancing a very 
great deal, I grew timid; and when I was left alone with 
people whom I did not know, I lapsed into my ordinary in- 
surmountable and ever-increasing shyness. I stood dumb in 
one place the entire evening. 

During a waltz, one of the Princesses came up to me, 
and, with the official amiability which was common to the 
entire family, asked me why I was not dancing? I remember 
how shy I grew at this question, but how at the same time, 
and quite involuntarily so far as I was concerned, a self- 
satisfied smile spread over my countenance, and I began to 
utter such nonsense in pompous French full of parentheses, 
that it makes me ashamed to remember it now after the lapse 
of ten years. The music must have thus acted upon me, ex- 
citing my nerves, and drowning, as I supposed, the not very 
intelligible portion of my speech. I said something about 
the highest society, about the frivolity of men and women ; 
and at last I got so entangled that I came to a standstill in 
the middle of a word in some sentence or other, which there 
was no possibility of completing. 

Even the Princess, who was worldly b}’ nature, became 
confused, and gazed reproachfully at me. I smiled. At that 
critical moment, Volod^^a, who had perceived that I was 
speaking with warmth, and probably wanted to know how I 
was making up for not dancing by my conversation, ap- 
proached us with Dubkoff. On ])erceiving my smiling face 
and the frightened mien of the Princess, and hearing the 
frightful stuff with which I wound up, he reddened, and 
turned away. The Princess rose and left me. I went on 
smiling, but suffered so much from the consciousness of m3" 
stu[)idity, that I was ready to sink through the earth, and 
1 felt the necessity of making some movement, at any cost, 


352 


YOUTH. 


and of saying something to effect some change in my posi- 
tion. I went np to Dubkoff, and inquired if he had danced 
many waltzes with her. By this 1 seemed to be jesting and in 
a merry mood, but in reality 1 was beseeching the assistance 
of that very Dubkoff to whom I had shouted, "‘fSilence! ” 
during the dinner at Jahr’s. Dubkoff pretended not to hear 
me, and turned aside. I approached Volodya, and said with 
an effoi't, and trying to impart a jesting tone to my voice, 
“ Well, how now, Volod^^a? have I got myself up gorgeous- 
ly?” But Volodya looked at me as much as to say, ‘‘You 
don’t talk like that to me when we are alone,” and he walked 
away fi'om me in silence, evidently fearing that I should still 
get into some difficulty. 

“ My God ! my brother also deserts me ! ” I thought. 

But, for some reason, I had not the strength to take my 
departure. I stood on gloomily, till the end of the evening, 
in one place ; and only when all were crowded into the ante- 
room as they dispersed, and the footman put my coat upon 
the tip of my hat, so that it tilted up, I laughed in a sickly 
way through my tears, and said, without addressing any one 
in particular, “ How pleasant it is ! ” 


YOUTH. 


353 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 

THE CAROUSE. 

Although I had not as yet, in consequence of Dmitri’s 
influence, given myself up to the usual pleasures of students, 
which are called carouses^ it had been my lot once, during 
the course of this winter, to take part in such a meri-y- 
making ; and I carried away with me a not wholly agreeable 
impression. This is the way it was. 

One day, during a lecture at the beginning of the jmar, 
Baron Z., a tall, blonde young man, with a veiy serious 
expression u[)on his regular features, invited us all to his 
house to pass an evening as comrades together. All of us 
meant, of course, all the members of our class who were 
more or less comme il fiuit ; among whose number, of course, 
neither Grap nor Semenoff nor Operoff were included, nor 
any of the meaner fellows. Volodya smiled contemptuously 
when he heard that I was going to a carouse of first-year 
men ; l)ut I expected great and 'remarkable pleasure from 
tills to me entirely novel mode of passing the time, and I 
was at Baron Z.’s punctually at eight o’clock, — the hour 
indicated. 

Baron Z., in a white vest and with his coat unbuttoned, 
was receiving his guests in the brilliantly lighted hall and 
drawing-room of the small house in which his parents dwelt : 
they had given up the state apartments to him for that even- 
ing’s festivity. In tlie corridor, the heads and dresses of 
curious maids were visible ; and in the pantry, the dress of a 
lady, whom I took to be the Baroness herself, flashed by 
once. 

The guests were twenty in number, and were all students, 
with the exception of Herr Frost, who had come with Ivin, 
and a tall, ruddy-cornplexioned gentleman in plain clothes, 
who attended to the banquet, and who was known to every- 
body as a relative of the Baron, and a former student at the 
University of Dorpat. The over-brilliant illumination, and 


354 


YOUTH. 


the usual regal decoration of the state apartments, produced 
a chilling effect at first upon this youthful company, all of 
whose members involuntarily kept close to the walls, with 
the exception of a few bold spirits and the student from 
Dorpat, who had already unbuttoned his waistcoat, and 
seemed to be in every room and in every corner of every 
room at one and the same time, and to lill the whole apart- 
ment with the sound of his resonant and agreeable and 
never-silent tenor voice. But the fellows either remained 
silent, or modestly" discussed the professors, the sciences, 
the examinations, and serious and interesting subjects, on 
the whole. Every one, without exception, stared at the door 
of the supper-room, and wore the expression which said, 
though they strove to hide it, “ AVhy, it’s time to begin!” 
I also felt that it was time to begin, and I awaited the 
beghinhig with impatient joy. 

After tea, which the footman handed round to the guests, 
the Dorpat student asked Frost in Russian, — 

“ Do you know how to make punch. Frost? ” 

“Oh, yes! ” replied Frost, wriggling liis calves; but the 
Dorpat student again addressed him in Russian : — 

“Then set about it” (he called him ikon., as a fellow- 
student at Dorpat) ; and Frost began to go from the draw- 
ing-room to the supper-room, from the supper- room to the 
drawing-room, with great strides of his curved and muscular 
legs ; and there speedily made its appearance on the table a 
large soup-tureen, and in it a ten-pound loaf of sugar, sur- 
rounded by three student-daggers laid crosswise. During 
this time, Baron Z. had kept incessantly approaching all the 
guests, who were assembled in the drawing-room, and saying 
to all, with an immovably-serious face and in almost the 
same words, “Come, gentlemen, let us mutually drink to 
brotherhood in student fashion, or we shall have no com- 
radeship at all in our class.” And, in fact, the Dorpat stu- 
dent, after taking off his coat, and stripping up his white 
shirt-sleeves above his white elbows, and planting his feet 
far apart in a a decided fashion, had already set tire to the 
rum in the soup-tureen. 

“Put out the lights, gentlemen!” cried the Dorpat stu- 
dent suddenly, as loudly and pleasantly as he could have 
done if we had all shouted. But we all gazed silently at the 
soup-tureen, and at the Dorpat student’s white shirt, and all 
felt that the solemn moment had arrived. 


YOUTH. 


355 


“ Extinguish the lights, Frost ! ” cried the Dorpat student 
again, and in German, having evidently become too much 
heated. Frost and all tlie rest of us set about extinguishing 
the candles. All was dark in the room, only the white sleeves 
and the hands which lifted the loaf of sugar on the daggers 
were illuminated by the bluish flame. The Dorpat stiuient’s 
loud tenor was no longer alone, for talking and laughter pro- 
ceeded from every quarter of the room. J\hmy took off their 
coats (especially those who had fine and perfectly clean 
shirts). I did the same, and understood that it had begun. 
Although nothing joll}' had happened so far, I was firmly con- 
vinced that it would be capital when we had drunk a glass 
of the beverage which had been prepared. 

The beverage was a success. The Dorpat student poured 
the punch into glasses, si)otting the table a good deal in the 
process, and shouted, ‘‘Now, gentlemen, give your hands ! ” 
And each time that we took a full, sticky glass in our 
hands, the Dorpat student and Frost struck up a German 
song, in which the exclamation juchhe was frequently re- 
peated ; we joined in discoidantly, began to clink our 
glasses, to shout something, to praise the punch, and to 
quaff the sweet, strong liquor through our hands or simply. 
There was nothing to wait for now, therefore the carouse 
was in full swing. I had alread}" drunk a full glass of punch, 
they poured me another ; my temples began to throb, the fire 
seemed crimson, eveiy one was shouting and laughing around 
me : but still it not only did not seem jolly, but I was even 
convinced that I, and every one else, was bored, and that I 
and the others considered it indispensable, for some reason 
or other, to ])retend that it was very jolly. The only one 
who could not have been dissimulating was the Dorpat stu- 
dent. lie grew constantly redder and more talkative, filled 
every one’s empty ghiss, and spilled more and more on the 
table, which became all sweet and sticky. I do not remem- 
ber in just what order things occurred, but I recollect that 
I was awfully fond of Frost and the Doipat student that 
evening, that I learned a German song by heart, and kissed 
them both on their sweet lips. I also recollect that I hated 
the Dorpat student that same evening, and wantt'd to fling 
a chair at him, but refrained. I recollect, that in addition 
to the consciousness of the insubordination of all my limbs, 
which I had exi)eiienced at Jahr’s, my head ached and swam 
so that evening that 1 was awfully afraid I was going to die 


356 


YOUTH. 


that very minute. I also recollect that we all seated our- 
selves on the floor, for some reason or other, flourished our 
arms in imitation of oars, sang “ Adown our Mother Volga,” 
and that, meantime, I was thinking that it was not at all 
necessaiT to do so. Furthermore, 1 recollect that, as I lay 
on the floor, I hooked one leg around the other, stretched 
myself out in gypsy fashion, twisted some one’s neck, and 
thought that it would not have happened if he had not been 
drunk. I remember too, that we had supper, and drank 
something else ; that I went out into the courtyard to refresh 
myself, and my head felt cold ; and that I noticed when I 
went away that it was dreadfully dark, that the step of my 
drozhky {prolijdtka) had become steep and slippery, and 
that it was impossible to hold on to Kuzma, because he had 
become weak, and swayed about like a rag. But I remember 
chiefly, that in the course of the evening I constantly felt that 
I was behaving very stupidly in feigning to be veiy jolly, to 
be very fond of drinking a great deal, and did not think 
of being drunk, and all the time I felt that the others were 
beliaving very foolishly in pretending the same. It seemed 
to me that it was disagreeable for each one individually, as 
it was for me ; but as each supposed that he- alone experi- 
enced this disagreeable sensation, he considered himself 
bound to feign gayety in order not to interfere with the gen- 
eral jollity. Moreover, strange to say, I felt that dissimu- 
lation -was incumbent on me simply because three bottles of 
champagne at ten rubles apiece, and ten bottles of rum at 
four rubles, had been poured into the soup-tureen, which 
amounted to seventy rubles, besides the supper. I was so 
fully convinced of this, that I was very much surprised the 
next day at the lecture, when my comrades who had been at 
Baron Z.’s not only were not ashamed to mention that they 
had been there, but talked about the party so that other stu- 
dents could hear. They said that it was a splendid carouse ; 
that the Dorpat fellows were great hands at these things, and 
that twenty men had drunk forty bottles of rum between 
them, and that many had been left for dead under the tal)les. 
I could not understand why they talked about it, and even 
lied about themselves. 


YOUTH. 


857 


CHAPTER XL. 

FRIENDSHIP WITH THE NEKHLIUDOFFS. 

During the winter, I not only saw a great deal of Dmitri, 
who came to onr house quite frequently, but of all his family, 
with whom I began to associate. 

The Nekhliudoffs, the mother, aunt, and daughter, passed 
all their evenings at diome ; and the Princess liked to have 
young people come to see her in the evening, men of the sort, 
as she expressed it, who were capable of passing a whole 
evening without cards and dancing. But there must have been 
very few such men ; for I rarely met any visitors there, though 
I went there nearly every evening. I became accustomed to 
the members of this family, and to their various dispositions, 
and had already formed a clear conception of their mutual 
relations. I became accustomed to their rooms and furni- 
ture ; and when there were no guests I felt myself perfectly 
at my ease, except on the occasions when I was left alone in 
the room witli Varenka. It still seemed to me as if, although 
not a very pretty girl, she would like very much to have me 
fall in love with her. But even this agitation began to pass 
off. She had such a natural appearance of not caring 
whether she talked to me, or to her brother, or Liubov Ser- 
gieevna, that I acquired the habit of looking upon her as 
upon a person to whom it was not at all either disgraceful or 
dangerous to show the pleasure which I took in her society. 
During the whole period of my acquaintance with lier, she 
seemed to me on different days very ugly, again not such a 
very ugly girl ; but never once did 1 ask myself with regard 
to her, “Am I in love with her, or not?” I sometimes 
chanced to talk directly to her, but more frequently I con- 
versed with her by directing my remarks in her presence to 
Liubov Sergieevna or Dmitri, and this last method gave me 
particular i)leasure. 1 took great satisfaction in talking 
before her, in listening to her singing, and in the general 


358 


YOUTH, 


consciousness of her presence in the room where I was ; but 
the thought as to what my relations with ^hlrenka would 
eventually become, and dreams of sacrificing myself for my 
friend in case he should fall in love with my sister, rarely 
entered my head now. If such ideas and dreams did occur 
to me, I strove to thrust aside any thought of the future, 
since I was content with the present. 

In spite, however, of this intimac}^ T continued to feel it 
my imperative duty to conceal from the whole Nckhliudolf 
society, and from Varenka in particular, my real sentiments 
and inclinations ; and I endeavored to show myself an entirely 
different 3 mung man from what I was in realit}", and such, 
indeed, as I could not be in reality. I strove to appear emo- 
tional ; I went into raptures, I groaned, and made passionate 
gestures when any thing pleased me greatly : and at the same 
time I endeavored to seem indifferent to^every unusual occur- 
rence which I saw, or of which I was told. I tried to appear 
a malicious scorner who held nothing sacred, and at the same 
time a delicate observer. I tried to appear logical in all my 
actions, refined and accurate in my life, and at the same 
time a person who despised all material things. I can assert 
boldly that I was much better in reality than the strange being 
which I endeavored to represent as myself ; but neverthe- 
less, and represent myself as I would, the Nekhliudoff's liked 
me, and, happily for me as it turned out, did not believe 
in my dissimulation. Liubov Sergieevna alone, who, it 
seems, regardeVl me as a great egoist, a godless and sneer- 
ing fellow, did not like me, and often quarrelled with me, 
got into a rage, and amazed me with her broken and inco- 
herent phrases. But Dmitri still maintained the same strange 
rather than friendly relations with her, and said that no one 
understood her, and that she did him a very great deal of 
good. His friendship with her continued to be a grievance 
to his family. 

Once Varenka, in discussing with me this union which 
was so incomprehensible to them all, explained it thus : 
“Dmitri is an egoist. He is too proud, and, in spite of all 
his cleverness, he is very fond of praise and admiration, 
loves to be first always ; and aunty,, in the innocence of her 
soul, finds herself admiring him ; and has not sufficient tact 
to conceal this admiration from him, and so it comes to pass 
that she flatters, only not hypocritically, but in earnest.” 

1 remembered this judgment, and on examining it after- 


YOUTH. 


3^9 


wards I could not but think that Varenka was very clever ; 
and I exalted her in my own opinion •with satisfaction, in 
consequence. This sort of exaltation, in consecjnence of tlie 
intelligence I had discovered in her, and of other moral (jnal- 
ities, 1 accomplished with a certain stern moderation, though 
with satisfaction ; and I never went into ecstasies, the high- 
est point of that exaltation. Thus, when Soi)hia Ivanovna, 
who talked nnweariedly of her niece, told me how, when \"a- 
renka was a child in the country four years befoi-e, she had 
given all her clothes and shoes to the peasant children with- 
out permission, so that they had to be taken away after- 
wards, I did not at once accept that faict as worthy of exalt- 
ing her in my opinion, but I mentally ridiculed her for such 
an unpractical view of things. 

When there were guests at the Nekhlindoffs’, and among 
others Volodya and Dnbkoff, I retired into the background 
in a self-satisfied way, and with a certain calm consciousness 
of power, as of a man of the house ; did not talk, and merely 
listened to what others said. And every thing that was said 
seemed to me so incredibly stupid, that 1 inwardly wondered 
how such an intelligent, logical woman as the Princess, and 
all her logical famil 3 ^ could listen to such follv, and reply to 
it. Had it then occurred to me to compare what others said 
with what I said myself when I was alone, I should certainly 
not have marvelled in the least. I should have marvelled 
still less if I had believed that the members of our house- 
hold — Avdotya, Vasilievna, Liubotchka, and Katcnka — 
were just like all other w^ornen, and no worse than any 
others ; and if I had recalled the fact that Dubkoff, Katenka, 
and Avdotya Vasilievna had conversed together for whole 
evenings, laughing merril}^ ; and how, on nearl}^ every occa- 
sion, Dubkoff, desiring to get up a discussion on something, 
recited, wdth feeling, the verses, “ Au banquet de la vie 
infortune convive,” ^ or extracts from “The Demon ; ” and 
what nonsense the}’ talked, on the whole, and with how much 
pleasure, for several hours together. 

When there were visitors, of course Varenka paid less 
attention to me than when we were alone ; and then there 
was no music or reading, which I wms veiy fond of listening 
to. In conversing wdth visitors, she lost wdiat was for me 
her chief charm, — her calm deliberation and simplicity. I 

1 An unfortiinate guest at the banriuel o'' life. 

* A celebrated poem by Lermoiiloff. 


360 


YOUTH. 


rememl^er what a strange surprise her conversations with my 
brother Volodya, about the theatre and the weather, were to 
me. I knew that Volodya avoided and despised common- 
places more than any thing else in the world ; Varenka, 
also, always ridiculed hy})ocritically absorbing discussions 
about the weather, and so forth : then why, when they came 
together, did they constantly utter the most intolerable 
absurdities, and that, too, as though they were nshamed of 
each other? I went into a private rage with Varenka after 
every such conversation, ridiculed the visitors on the follow- 
ing day, but took still greater pleasure in being alone in the 
Nekhliudoff family circle. 

At all events, 1 began to take more pleasure in being with 
Dmitri in his mother’s drawing-room than alone face to face 
with him. 


YOUTH. 


361 


CHAPTER XLI. 

FRIENDSIIir WITH THE NEKHLIUDOFFS. 

Just ut tliis time, m 3 ’ friendship with Dmitri hung by a 
liair. I had begun to criticise him too long ago not to find 
that he had failings ; but, in our early youth, we love with 
the passions only, and therefore only perfect people. But 
as soon as the mist of passion begins, little liy little, to 
decrease, or as soon as the clear rays of judgment begin 
to pierce it involuntarily, and we behold the object of our 
passion in his real aspect, with his merits and his short- 
comings, the shortcomings alone strike us as something 
unexpected, in a vivid and exaggerated manner ; the feeling 
of attraction towards a novelty, and the hope that it is not 
utterly imjiossible in another man, encourage us not only’ to 
coolness, but to repugnance for the former object of our 
passion, and we desert him without compunetion, and hasten 
forward to seek some new perfection. If it was not pre- 
cisely this which happened to me in my conueetion with 
Dmitri, it was because 1 was only bound to him by an obsti- 
nate, pedantic, and intellectual affection, rather than by an 
affection from the heart, which I was too much ashamed to 
be false to. We were bound, moreover, by onr strange rule 
of frankness. We were afraid, that, if we parted, we should 
leave too much in each other’s power all the moral seerets 
which we had confided to each other, and of which some 
were dishonorable to us. Besides, our rule of frankness, 
as was evident to us, had not been kept for a long time ; 
and it embarrassed us, and brought about strange relations 
between us. 

Almost every’ time that I went to Dmitri that winter, I 
found with him his comrade in the university, a student 
named Bezobyedoff, with whom he was engaged. Bezobye- 
doff was a small, thin, poek-marked man, with very small 
hands which were covered with freckles, and a gieat mass of 


362 


YOUTH. 


unkempt red hair. He was always very ragged and dirty, he 
was uncultivated, and he even studied badly. Dmitri’s rela- 
tions with him were, like his relations with Liubov Sergieevna, 
incomprehensible to me. The sole reason why he could 
have selected him from among all his comrades, and have 
become intimate with him, was, that there was not a student 
in the whole university who was uglier in appearance than 
Bezobyedoff. But it must have been precisely for that 
reason that Dmitri found it agreeable to exhibit friendship 
for him in spite of everybody. In his whole intercourse 
with this student, the haughty sentiment was exi)ressed : 
‘‘ It’s nothing to me who 3^011 are: 3’on are all the same to 
me. I like him, and of course he’s all right.” 

I was sur[)rised that he did not find it hard to put a 
constant constraint upon himself, and that the unfortunate 
Bezobyedoff endured his awkward position. This friendship 
did not please me at all. 

Once I came to Dmitri in the CA’cning for the purpose of 
spending the evening in his mothei-’s drawing-room with him, 
in conversation and in listening to Varenka’s singing or read- 
ing ; but Bezobyedoff was sitting up-stairs. Dmitri replied 
to me in a sharp tone that he could not come down because 
he had company, as 1 could see for mj^self. 

“And what fun is there theixi?” he added: “ it’s much 
better to sit here and chat.” Although the idea of sitting 
and taliving with Bezobyedoff for a couple of hours did not 
attract me, I (*ould not make up 1113^ mind to go to the draw- 
ing-room alone ; and vexed to the soul at n\y friend’s eccen- 
tricity, I seated myself in a rocking-chair, and began to rock 
in silence. I was very much provoked with Dmitri and with 
Bezobyedoff, because they had deprived me of the pleasure of 
going down-stairs. I wanted to see whether Bezobyedoff 
would take his departure soon ; and I was angry with him and 
Dmitri as I listened in silence to theii- conversation. “ A ver3" 
agreeable guest! sit down with him ! ” thought I, when the 
footman brought tea, and Dmitri had to ask Bezobyedoff five 
times to take a glass, because the timid visitor considered 
himself bound to decline the first and second glasses, and to 
say, “ Help yourself.” Dmitri, with a visible effort, engaged 
his visitor in conversation, into which he made several vain 
efforts to drag me. I preserved a gloomy silence. 

“There’s nothing to be done: let no one dare suspect 
from my face that I am bored,” I addressed myself men- 


YOUTH. 


363 


tail}’ to Dmitri, as I rocked myself silently and regularly in 
my chair. I fanned the flame of quiet hatred towards my 
friend within me more and more. “ What a fool ! ” 1 thought 
of him. “• lie might have spent a delightful evening with his 
dear relations, but no, he sits here with this beast ; and now 
the time is i)ast, it is already too late to go to the drawing- 
room ; ” and I peeped at my friend from behind the edge of 
my chair. 11 is hands, his attitude, his neck, and especially 
the nape of it, and his knees, seemed so re[)ulsive aiul morti- 
fying that 1 could have taken great delight at that moment 
in doing something to him, even something extremely dis- 
agreeable. 

At length Bezobyedoff rose, but Dmitri could not at once 
})art fi'om so agreeable a guest. He ])roposed to him that he 
should spend the night there ; to which, fortunately, Bezo- 
byedoff did not consent, and departed. 

After having seen him off, Dmitri returned ; and smiling 
brightly in a self-satisfied way, and rubbing his hands, prob- 
ably because he had kept up his character, and because he 
had at last got rid of his enntii., he began to pace the room, 
glancing at me from time to time. He was still more repul- 
sive to me. ‘‘ How dare he walk and smile? ” thought I. 

“ AVhy are you angry? ” said he suddenly, halting in front 
of me. 

“I am not angry at all,” I answered, as one ahvays an- 
swers on such occasions : “I am only vexed that you should 
dissimulate to me and to Bezobyedoff', and to yourself.” 

“ What nonsense ! I never dissimulate to any one.” 

“‘I have not forgotten our rule of frankness: I speak 
openly to you. I am convinced that that Bezobyedoff is as 
intolerable to you as to me, because he is stupid, and God 
knows what else ; l)ut you like to put on airs before him.” 

‘‘No! and, in the first place, Bezobyedoff is a very fine 
man.” 

“ And I tell you, yes ; I will even go so far as to say to 
3‘ou that }‘our friendship with Liubov Sergieevna is also 
founded on the fact that she considers you a god.” 

“ And I tell 3X)U, no.” 

“ But I tell 3^011, 3^es, because I know it by my own case,” 
I replied with the warmth of suppressed vexation, and desir- 
ous of disarming him b3’ mv frankness. “I have told you, 
and I repeat it,"that it always seems to me that I like those 
people who say pleasant things to me ; and when 1 come to 


3G4 


YOUTH. 


examine the matter well, I see that there is no real attach- 
ment.” 

“No,” went on Dmitri, adjusting his neckerchief with an 
angry motion of the neck ; “ when 1 love, neither praise nor 
blame can change m3’ feelings.” 

“It is not true. I have confessed to 3’ou that when papa 
called me a good-for-nothing, I hated him for a while, and 
desired his death, just as you ” — 

“ Speak for yourself. It’s a great pity if 3^11 are such ” — 
“ On the contrary,” I cried, s[)ringing from 1113^ chair, and 
looking him in the eye with desperate braveiy, “ what you 
are saying is not' right ; did 3’ou fiot speak to me about my 
brother? I will not remind you of it, because that would be 
dishonorable. Did 3’ou not speak tome — And I will tell 
3mu how I understand 3"ou now ” — 

And, endeavoring to wound him even more painfulW than 
he had wounded me, I began to demonstrate to him that he 
did not love any one, and to tell him eveiy thing with which, 
as it seemed to me, I had a right to reproach him. I was 
very much pleased at having told him eveiy thing, quite for- 
getting that the only possible object of this exposition, which 
consisted in his confessing the shortcomings with which I 
charged him, could not be attained at the present moment, 
when he was excited. But I never said this to him when he 
was in a state of composure, and could acknowledge it. 

The dispute had alread3^ passed into a quarrel, when Dmi- 
tri became silent all at once, and went into the next room. 
I was on the point of following him, talking all the while, 
but he did not reply to me. I knew that violent i)assion was 
set down in his list of vices, and that he had conquered him- 
self now. I cursed all his registers. 

80 this was to what our rule had led us, to tell each other 
every thing that we thought., and iiever to say any thing about 
each other to any third ^oerson. Carried away by frank- 
ness, we had sometimes proceeded to the most shameless 
confessions, announcing, to our owm shame, ideas, dreams 
of desire and sentiment, such as I had just ex])ressed to him, 
for example ; and these confessions not only had not drawn 
closer the bond wliicli united us, but the3’ had dried up the 
feeling itself, and separated us. And now, all at once, ego- 
tism did not permit him to make the most trivial confession ; 
and in the heat of our dispute we made use of the veiy 
weapons with which wm had previously supplied each other, 
and which dealt frightfully painful blows. 


YOUTH. 


3G5 


CHAPTER XLII. 

THE STEPMOTHER. 

Although papa had not meant to come to ISfoscow with 
his wife until after the new year, he arrived in Octohei’, at 
a season when there was excellent aiitnmn hunting to be had 
with the dogs. Papa said that he had changed his plan be- 
cause his case was to be heard in the senate ; but IMimi told 
us that Avdotya Vasilievna had become so bored in tlie 
country, had spoken so frequently of Moscow, and feigned 
illness, that papa had decided to comply with her wishes. 
For she had never loved him, but had only murmured her 
love in everybody’s ears, out of a desire to marry a rich 
man, said Mimi, sighing thoughtfully, as much as to say, 
It’s not what some pt'ople would have done for him, if he 
had but known how to prize them.” 

jSome people were unjust to Avdotya Vasilievna. Her love 
for papa, passionate, devoted love, and self-sacrifice, were 
evident in every word, every look, and every movement. 
Put this love did not in the least prevent her cherishing a 
desire, in comi)an 3 ^ with the desire not to leave her husband, 
for remarkable headdresses from Madame Annette, for bon- 
nets with extraoitlinary blue ostrich-feathers, and gowns of 
blue Venetian velvet, that artistically revealed her fine white 
arms and bosom, which had hitherto been exhibited to no one 
except to her husband and dressing-maids. Katenka took 
lier mother’s part, of course ; while between our stepmother 
and us certain odd, jesting relations established themselves 
from the veiy day of her arrival. As soon as she alighted 
from the carriage, \'olodya went np, scraping, and swaying 
back and forth, to kiss her hand, having assumed a grave 
face and troubled eyes, and said, as though he were intro- 
ducing some one : 

“ 1 have the honor to offer my congratulations on the arrival 
of a dear mamma, and to kiss her hand.” 


366 


YOUTH, 


“ Ah, m3' dear son ! ” said Avdot3'a Vasilievna, with her 
beautiful, monotonous smile. 

‘'And do not forget 3'our second little son,” said I, also 
approaching to kiss her hand, and involuntaril}^ trying to as- 
sume the expression of Volod3ai’s face and voice. 

If our stepmother and we had been sure Of our mutual 
attacliment, this expression might have indicated scorn of 
the exhibition of any tokens of affection ; if we had already 
been ill-dis[)osed towards each other, it might have indicated 
irony, or scorn of hypocrisy, or a desire to conceal our real 
relations from our father, who was pi-esent, and many other 
thoughts aiid feelings: but in the present case this expres- 
sion, which suited Avdotva Vasilieviia’s taste extremely well, 
indicated nothing at all, and only pointed to an utter ab- 
sence of all relations. 1 have often ol)served these false and 
jesting relations since, in other families, where the membei’S 
of them foresee that the actual relations will not be quite 
agreeable ; and these relations iuvoluutai-ily established them- 
selves between us and Avdotya Vasilievna. We hardly ever 
departed from them ; we were alwa3^s In’pocritically polite to 
her, spoke French, scraped and bowed, and called her 
mamaa,” to which she alwa3’s replied with jests, in the same 
st3de, and her beautiful, monotonous smile. Tearful Liu- 
botchka alone, with her crooked legs and innocent prattle, 
took a liking to the stepmother, and strove very naively,^ and 
sometimes awkwardl}^ to bring her into closer connection 
with all our famil3^ ; and in return, the only creature in all 
the world for whom Avdot3"a Vasilievna had a drop of affec- 
tion, with the exception of her passionate love for papa, 
was Linbotchka. Avdot}^ Vasilievna even exhibited for 
her a certain ecstatic admiration and a timid respect, which 
greatl}" amazed me. 

At first Avdot}^ was very fond of calling herself a stej)- 
mother, and hinting at the evil and unjust way in which chil- 
dren and members of the household always look upon a step- 
mother, and how different her position was in consequence of 
this. But though she had perceived all the nn[)leasantness 
of the position, she had done nothing to escape it ; she did not 
caress one, make presents to another, and avoid grumbling, 
which would have been verv easy for her, since she was veiy 
amiable, and not exacting in disposition. And she not onl}' 
did not do this, but on the contrary, foreseeing all the nn- 
pleasaiitiiess of her position, she prepared herself for defence 


YOUTH. 


3GT 


without having been attacked ; and, taking it for granted that 
all the members of the household wished to use all the means 
in their power to insult her, and make things disagreeable for 
her, she perceived design in every thing, and considered 
that the most dignified way for her was to suffer in silence ; 
and, since she won no love by her abstention from action, 
■of coni-se she won ill-will. Moreover, she was so lacking in 
that quality of understanding which was developed to such a 
high degree in our house, and which I have alivadv men- 
tioned, and her haluts were so opposed to those which had 
become rooted in our house, that this alone prejudiced people 
against her. In onr neat, precise house she always lived as 
though she had but just arrived ; she rose and retired now 
early, now. late; 'at one time she would come out to dinner, 
at another she would not, and sometimes slie Inul siq)per, and 
again she had none. She went al)ont half-dressed the greater 
part of the time when we had no visitors, and was not 
ashamed to show herself to us, and even to the servants, in a 
white petticoat, with a shawl thrown around her, and with 
bare arms. At first this simplicity i)leased me ; but I very 
soon lost all the respect I had entertained for her, in conse- 
quence of this very simplicity. It seemed still stranger to us, 
that there were two totall}^ dissimilar wo4nen in her, accord- 
ing to whether we had visitors or not : one, in the presence 
of guests, was a healthy, cold young beauty, elegantly 
dressed, neither clever nor foolish, but cheerful; the other, 
when no guests were by, was a sad, worn-out woman, no 
longer young, untidy, and bored, though affectionate. I 
often thought, as I looked at her when slie returned smiling 
from making calls, and blushing with the winter cold, hap[)y 
in the consciousness of her beauty, and went up to the mirror 
to survey herself as she removed her bonnet ; or when she 
went to the cari’iage rustling in her »rich, low-necked ball- 
dress, feeling a little ashamed, yet proud, before the servants ; 
or at home, when we hnd little evening gatherings, in a close 
silk gown with some delicate lace about her soft neck, she 
beamed on all sides with her monotonous but beautiful smile, 
— what would those who raved over her have said if they 
could have seen her as I did on the evenings when she stayed 
at home, and strayed though the dimly lighted rooms like a 
shadow, as she awaited her husband’s return from the club, 
in some sort of a wrapper, with unkempt hair? Sometimes 
she went to the piano, and played her one waltz, frowning 


-368 


YOUTH. 


with the effort ; then she would take a volume of romance, 
and. aftei’ reading a few lines out of the middle of it, throw 
it away; again, in order not to wake up the servants, she 
would go to the pantry herself, and get a cucumber and cold 
veal, and eat it standing by the pantry-window ; or would 
wander from room to room aimlessly, both weary and l)ored. 
But what separated us from her more than any thing else was. 
her lack of tact, ivhich was expressed chielly by the peculiar 
manner of her condescending attention when people talked 
to her about things which she did not understand. She was 
not to blame, because she had unconsciously accpiired a habit 
of smiling slightly with the lips alone, and bending her head 
when she was told things which did not interest her (and 
nothing except herself and her husband did interest her) ; 
but that smile, and bend of the head, frequently repeated, 
were inexpi’cssibly repellant. Her mirth, too, which seemed 
to ridicule hei'self, us, and all the world, was awkward, and 
communicated itself to no one ; her sensibility was too arti- 
licial. But the chief thing of all was that she was not 
ashamed to talk constantly to every one about her love for 
papa. Although she did not lie in the least in saying of it 
that her whole life consisted in her love for her husband, and 
although she proved,.it with her whole life, yet, according to 
our views, such ceaseless, unreserved assertion of her affec- 
tion was disgusting, and we were ashamed for her when she 
spoke of it before straiigers, even more than when she made 
mistakes in French. 

She loved her husband more than any thing in the world ; 
and her husband loved her, especially' at first, and when he 
saw that he was not the only one whom she pleased. The 
sole aim of her existence was the acquii'ement of her hus- 
band’s love ; but it seemed as though she puiq)osely did every 
thing which could be disagreeable to him, and all with the 
object of showing him the full power of her love, and her 
readiness to sacrifice herself. 

She loved gala attire ; my father liked to see her a beauty 
in society, exciting praise and admiration : she sacrificed her 
love for festivities, for father’s sake, and grew more and more 
accustomed to sit at home in a gray blouse. Pai)a, who 
always had considered freedom and equality indispensable 
conditions in family intercourse, hoped that his beloved 
Liubotchka and his good young wife would come together 
in a sincere and friendly way ; but Avdotya Vasilievua was 


lOUTH. 


369 


sacrificing herself, and considered it requisite to show the 
real 7nistre{is of the house, as she called Liubotchka, an nn- 
siiitablc ainoiint of respect, which wonnded papa deeply. 
He gambled a great deal that winter, and, towards the end, 
lost a good deal of money ; and concealed his gambling 
matters from all the honsehold, as he always did, not wish- 
ing to mix np his play with his family life. Avdotya 
Yasilievna sacrificed herself ; sometimes she was ill, and 
towards the end of the winter she was enciente, but she con- 
sidered it her duty to go to meet papa with her swinging 
gait, in her gray blouse, and with unkempt hair, at four or 
five o’clock in the morning, when he returned from his club, 
at times weary and ashamed after his losses. 

She inquired, in an absent-minded way, whether he had 
been lucky at play ; and listened, with condescending atten- 
tion, as she smiled and rolled her head about, to what he 
told her as to his doings at the club, and to his request, a 
hundred times repeated, that she would never wait for him. 
]bit although his losses and winnings, upon which, according 
to his play, all papa’s property depended, did not interest 
her in the least, she was the first to meet him every night 
when he returned from the club. Moreover, she was urged 
to these meetings, not by her passion for self-sacrifice alone, 
btit by a certain concealed jealousy from which she suffered 
in the highest degree. No one in the world could convince 
her that papa was returning late from the club, and not from 
some mistress. She tried to read papa’s love secrets in his 
face ; and, as she could see nothing there, she sighed with a 
certain luxury of woe, and gave herself np to the contempla- 
tion of her unhappiness. 

In consequence of these and many other incessant sac- 
rifices, there came to be, in papa’s conduct to his wife, 
towards the later months of the winter, during which he had 
lost a great deal, so that he was out of spirits the greater 
part of the time, an evident and mingled feeling of quiet 
hate, of that suppressed repugnance to the object of one’s 
affections which expresses itself by an unconscious endeavor 
to cause that object every possible sort of petty moral un- 
pleasantnesses. 


370 


YOUTIL 


CHAPTER XLIII. 

NEW COMRADES. 

The winter passed away iinperceived, and the thaw had 
already begun tigain, and at the university the lists of 
examinations had alread}’ been nailed up ; when all at once 
I remembered that I must answer to the eighteen subjects 
which 1 had listened to, and not one of which I had heard, 
written down, or prepared. Strange that such a plain 
question, How am I to pass the examinations? ” had never 
once presented itself to me. But I had been in such a mist 
that whole winter, arising from my delight in being grown 
up and being conime it faut^ that when it did occur to me. 

How am I to pass the examinations? ” I compared myself 
with my Bomrades, and thought, “They will pass, but the 
majority of them are not comme il faut yet ; so I still have 
an extra advantage over them, and I must pass.” I went to 
the lectures simply because 1 had become accustomed to it, 
and because papa sent me out of the house. Moreover, I 
had a great many acquaintances, and I often had a joll}" 
time at the university. I loved the noise, the chattering, the 
laughing in the auditorium ; I loved to sit on the rear bench 
during the lecture, and dream of sonfething or other to the 
monotonous sound of the professor’s voice, and to observe 
my comrades; I liked to run out at times with some one to 
IMaterna’s, to drink vodka and take a bite, and, knowing 
that I might be punished for it, to enter the auditorium after 
the })rofessor, creaking the door timidly ; I loved to take 
part in a ])iece of mischief when class after class congre- 
gated amid laughter in the corridors. All this was very 

jolly- 

When eveiybody had begun to attend the lectures more 
faithfully, and the professor of physics had finished his 
course, and had taken leave until the examinations, the stu- 
dents began to collect their note -books, and [)ret»are them- 


YOUTH. 


^ 371 


selves. I also began to tliink of preparing ni 3 ’self. Operoff 
and 1 continued to bow to each other, but were on the very 
coolest terms, as I have already said. He not only offered 
me his note-books, but invited me to prepare myself from 
them with him and other students. I thanked him, and con- 
sented, hoping by this honor to entirely smooth over my 
former disagreement with him ; but all I asked was that all 
would be sure to meet at my house every time, as 1 had tine 
quarters. 

1 was told that the preparations wonld be made in turn at 
one house or another, according to its nearness. The tirst 
meeting took place at Zukhin’s. It was a little room, behind 
a partition, in a large house on the Trnbnoi Boulevard. I 
was late on the first day named, and came when they had 
already begun the reading. The little room was full of 
smoke from the coarse tobacco which Zukhiu used, which 
was malxJiorka.^ On the table stood a square bottle of 
vodka, glasses, bread, salt, and a mntton-bone. 

Zukhiii invited me, without rising, to take a drink of 
vodka^ and to take off my coat. 

“I think you are not accustomed to such an entertain- 
ment,” he added. 

All were in dirty calico shii'ts, with false bosoms. I 
removed my coat, trying not to show my scorn for them, 
and laid it on 'the sofa with an air of comradeship. Zukhin 
recited, referring now and then to the note-books : the others 
stopped him to ask questions ; and he explained conciseh’, 
intelligentl}^ and accuratel}". I began to listen ; and as I 
did not understand much, not knowing what had gone be- 
fore, I asked a question. 

‘‘ Eh. batiuschka, you can’t listen if }mu don’t know that,” 
said Zukhin. “ 1 will give you the note-books, and you can 
go through them for to-morrow.” 

I was ashamed of my ignorance, and, conscious at the 
same time of the entire justice of Zukhin’s remark, I ceased 
to listen, and busied myself with observations on these new 
associates. According to the classilication of men into those 
who were comme U faut, and those who were comme il ne 
faut pas, the}' evident!}' belonged to the second division, and 
awakened in me, consequently, a feeling not only of scorn, 
but of a certain personal hatred which I ex})erienced for 
them, because, though they were not comme il faut, they not 

1 Pwasaut tobacco {nicotiana ruatica), grown in Lillie llusbia. 


372 


YOUTH. 


only seemed to regard me as their equal, but even patronized 
me in a good-natured way. This feeling was aroused in me 
by -their feet, and their dirty hands with their closely bitten 
nails, and one long nail on Operoff’s little finger, and their 
pink shirts, and their false bosoms, and the oatlis with which 
they affectionately addressed each other, and the dirty room, 
and Zukhin’s habit of constantly blowing his nose a little, 
while he pressed one nostril with his finger, and in particular 
their manner of speaking, of employing and accenting certain 
words. For instance, they used blockhead instead of fool ; 
jmt so instead of exactly ; splendid instead of very beautiful ; 
and so on : which seemed to me to be book-language, and dis- 
gustingly ungentlemanly. But that which aroused my comme 
il fiut hatred was the accent which the\’ placed on certain 
Russian, and especially on foreign words : they said machine, 
activity, on purpose, in the chimney, Shakspeare instead of 
Shakspeare, and so forth, and so forth. 

But in spite of their exterior, which at that time was in- 
superably repugnant to me, I had a presentiment that there 
was something good about these people ; and, envious of the 
jolly comradeship which united them, I felt attracted to 
them, and wanted to get better acquainted with them, which 
was not a difficult thing for me to do. I already knew the 
gentle and upright Operoff. Now, the dashing and remark- 
ably clever Zukhin, who evidently reigned over this circle, 
pleased me extremely. He was a small, stout, dark-com- 
plexioned man, with somewhat swollen and always shining 
l)ut extremely intelligent, lively, and independent face. This 
expression was especially due to his forehead, which was not 
lofty, but arched over deep black eyes, his short, bristling 
hair, and his thick black beard, which bore the appearance of 
never being shaved. He did not seem to think of himself (a 
thing which always pleased me in people), but it was evident 
that his mind was never idle. His was one of those expres- 
sive countenances which undergo an entire and sudden 
change in your eyes a few hours after >ou have seen them 
for the first time. This is what happened in my eyes with 
Zukhin’s face towards the end of the evening. New wrinkles 
suddenly made their appearance on his countenance, his eyes 
retreated still deeper, his smile became different, and his 
whole face was so changed that it was with difficulty that I 
recogn'zed him. 

When the meeting was at an end, Zukhin, the other stu- 


YOUTH. 


373 


dents, and I drank a glass of vodka apiece in order to show 
our desire to be good comrades, and hardly an}' remained 
in the bottle. Zukhin inquired who had a quarter-ruble, that 
the old woman who served him might be sent for more 
vodka. I offered my money ; but Zukhin turned to Operoff 
as though he had not heard me, and Operoff, pulling out a 
little bead purse, gave him the money that was needed. 

“ See that you don’t get drunk,” said Operoff, who did not 
drink at all himself. 

By no means,” replied Zukhin, sucking the marrow 
from the mutton-bone (I remember thinking at the time, 

“ He is so clever because he eats a great deal of marrow.”) 
“By no means,” went on Zukhin, smiling slightly, and his 
smile was such that one noticed it involuntarily, and felt 
grateful to him for the smile. “ Though I should get drunk, 
there’s no harm. Now let’s see, brothers : who will wager 
that I’ll come out better than he will, or he better than I? 
It’s all ready, brothers,” he added, tapping his head boast- 
fully. “There’s Semenoff, he would not have broken down 
if he had not caroused so deeply.” 

In fact, that same gray-haired Semenoff, who had so much 
delighted me at the first examination by being homelier tlian 
myself, and who, after having passed second in the entrance 
examinations, had attended the lectures punctually during 
the first month of his student-hood, had caroused before the 
review, and towards the end of the year’s course had not 
shown himself at the university at all. 

“ Where is he? ” asked some one. 

“ I have lost sight of him,” went on Zukhin. “ The last 
time we were together we ruined Lisbon. He turned out a 
magnificent scamp. They say there was some story or other 
afterwards. That was a head ! What fire there was in that 
man ! What a mind ! It’s a pity if he has come to grief ; 
but he certainly has. He wasn’t "the kind of a boy to sit still 
in the university with his outbreaks.” 

After a little further conversation, all rose to go, having 
agreed to meet at Zukhin’s on the following days, because ^ 
his quarters were the nearest to all the rest. When we 
all emerged into the courtyard, I was rather conscience- 
stricken that they should all be on foot, while I alone rode in 
a drozhky ; and in my shame I proposed to Operoff to take 
him home. Zukhin had come out with us, and, borrowing 
a silver ruble of Operoff’, he went off somewhere to visit for 


874 


YOUTH. 


the night. On the way Operoff told me a great deal about 
Zukhin’s character, and manner of life ; and when I reached 
home I did not go to sleep for a long time, for thinking of 
the new people with whom I had becoixie acquainted. For a 
long while I did not fall asleep, but wavered, on the one 
hand, between respect for them whose learning, simplicity, 
honesty, and poetry of youth and daring, inclined me in 
their favor ; and their ungentlemanly exterior, which repelled 
me, on the other hand. In spite of all this desire, it was at 
that time literally impossible for me to associate with them. 
Our ideas were entirely different. There was between us an 
abyss of shades, which constituted for me all the charm and 
reason of life, which were utterly incomprehensible to them, 
and vice versa. But the principal reason why we could not 
possibly associate was the twenty-ruble cloth of m>’ coat, 
my drozhkv, and my cambric shirts. This reason had par- 
ticular weight with me. It seemed to me that I insulted 
them with the signs of my prosperity. I felt guilt}’ before 
them ; and I could not in any way enter upon equal, gen- 
uinely friendly relations with them, because I first humbled 
myself, then rebelled against my undeserved humiliation, and 
then proceeded to self-confidence. But the coarse, vicious 
side of Zukhin’s character had been, during this period, to 
such a degree overwhelmed by that powerful poetry of 
bravely of which I had a presentiment in him, that it did not 
affect me at all unpleasantly. 

For two weeks I went nearly every evening to study at 
Zukhin’s. I studied very little ; for. as I have already said, I 
had fallen behind my comrades, and as I had not sufficient 
force to study alone, in order to catch up with them, -I only 
pretended to listen and understand what was read. It seemed 
to me that my companions divined my dissimulation ; and I 
observed that they frequently skipped passages which they 
knew themselves, and never asked me. 

Every day I became more and more lenient towards the 
disorder of this circle, I felt drawm towards it, and found 
much that was poetical in it. My word of honor alone, 
which I had given to Dmitri, not to go anywhere on a carouse 
with them, restrained my desire to share their pleasures. 

Once I attempted to brag before them of my knowledge of 
literature, and particularly of French literature ; and I led the 
conversation to that subject. It turned out, to my amaze- 
ment, that, although they pronounced titles of foreign books 


YOUTH. 


375 


in Russian fashion, that they had read a great deal more 
than I, that they knew and prized English and even Spanish 
writers, and Lesage of whom I had never even heard. Push- 
kin and Zhukovsky were literature to them (and not, as to 
me, little books in yellow bindings which I had read and 
learned as a child). They despised Dumas, Sue, and F4val 
equally ; and passed judgment, Zukhin in particular, upon 
literature much better and more clearly than I, as J could not 
but acknowledge. Neither had I any advantage over them 
in my knowledge of music. Still more to my amazement, 
Operoff played on the violin, another of the students who 
studied with us played the violoncello and the piano ; and 
both played in the university orchestra, knew music very well, 
and prized it highly. In a word, with the exception of the 
French and German accent, they knew every thing that I at- 
tempted to brag about before them, much better than I did, 
and were not in the least proud of it. I might have boasted 
of my social position ; but, unlike Volodya, I had none. 
What, then, was that height from which I looked down upon 
them? my acquaintance with Prince Ivan Ivanitch? my pro- 
nunciation of French? my drozhky? my cambric shirts? my 
finger-nails? And was not this all nonsense? — began to 
pass dimly through m}^ mind at times, under the influence of 
envy for the fellowship and good-natured youthful mirth 
which I saw before me. They all called each other thou. 
The simplicity of their intercourse approached coarseness, 
but even beneath this rough exterior a fear of offending each 
other in any way was constantly visible. Scamp and pig., 
which were employed by them in an affectionate sense, only 
made me recoil, and gave me cause for inward ridicule ; but 
these words did not offend them in the least, or prevent their 
standing on the most friendly footing with one another. 
They were careful and delicate in their dealings with one 
another, as only very poor and very young people are. But 
the chief point w'as, that I scented something broad and wdld 
in the character of Zukhin and his adventures in Lisbon. I 
had a suspicion that these carouses must be something quite 
different from the sham wdth burnt rum and champagne in 
which I had participated at Baron Z.’s. 


376 


YOUTH. 


CHAPTER XLIV. 

ZUKHIN AND SEMENOFF. 

I DO not know to what class of society Ziikhin belonged ; 
but I know that he was from the C. gymnasiun, had no money 
whatever, and apparently w^as not of noble birth. He was 
eighteen at this time, though he appeared much older. He 
was remarkably clever, and particularly quick at grasping an 
idea ; it was easier for him to embrace the whole of a many- 
sided subject, to foresee all its branches and the deductions 
from it, than to examine carefully by means of knowledge 
the law? by which these deductions are arrived at. He knew 
that he was clever ; he was proud of it, and in consequence 
of this pride he was uniformly simple and good-natured in his 
intercourse with every one. He must have suffered much in 
the course of his life. His fierv, sensitive nature had already 
succeeded in reflecting in itself love and friendship and busi- 
ness and money. Although in a restricted measure, and in 
the lower classes of society, there was nothing for which, after 
having made proof of it, he did not feel either scorn, or a 
certain indifference and inattention, which proceeded from the 
too great facility with which he acquired every thing. Ap- 
parently he only grasped at every novelty for the sake of 
scorning what he had obtained after gaining his object, and 
his gifted nature always attained its goal, and had a right to 
its contempt. It was the same thing with the sciences : he 
studied little, took no notes, 3"et had a superior knowledge of 
mathematics, and boasted of it, saying that he could beat the 
professor. He thought a great deal of wdiat they taught was 
nonsense ; but with his characteristic, unconsciously practical., 
and roguish nature, he immediately fell in with what the pro- 
fessor required, and all the professors liked him. He was 
outspoken in his bearing with the authorities, yet the authori- 
ties respected him. He not only did not respect or love the 
sciences, but he eveu despised those who occupied themselves 


YOUTH. 


377 


serionsh’ with what he acquired so easily. The sciences, as 
he understood them, did not require the tenth part of his 
gifts ; life in his position as a student did not offer any thing 
to which he could devote himself wholly : but, as he said, his 
fiery, active nature demanded life, and he gave himself up 
to dissipation of such a kind as his means permitted, and 
yielded himself with ardor and a desire to exhaust it so far 
as lay in his power. Now, before the examinations, Operoff’s 
prediction was fulfilled. He disappeared for a couple of 
weeks, so that we made our preparations during the last part 
of the time at another student’s rooms. But at the first ex- 
amination, he made his appearance in the hall, pale, haggard, 
and with trembling hands, and passed into the second course 
in a brilliant manner. 

At th(^ beginning of the course, there were eight men in 
the company of carousers, at whose head stood Zukhin. 

'Ikonin and Semenoff were among the number at first. The 
former left the company because he could not endure the wild 
dissipation to which the}’ gave themselves over at the begin- 
ning of the year ; but the second did not desert them, 
because it seemed a small thing to him. At first, all the 
men in our class looked upon them with a kind of horror, 
and related their pranks to each other. 

The chief heroes of these pranks were Zukhin, and, to- 
wards the end of the year, Semeiioff. All regarded Semen- 
off, towards the end, with a certain terror ; and when he 
came to a lecture, which very rarely happened, there was a 
sensation in the auditorium. 

Semenoft' wound up his career of dissipation, just before 
the examinations, in the most original and energetic manner ; 
to which 1 was a witness, thanks to my acquaintance with 
Zukhin. This is how it was. One evening, when we had 
just assembled at Zukhin’s, and Operoff, having arranged 
beside him, in addition to the tallow candle in the candle- 
stick, a tallow candle in a bottle, and, with his head bent 
down over the note-books, was beginning to read in his shrill 
voice from his minutely written notes on physics, the land- 
lady entered the room, and informed Zukhin that some one 
had come with a note for him.^ . . . 

1 The rest of the story is omitted in the Russian. 


378 


YOUTH. 


CHAPTER XLV. 

I MAKE A FAILURE. 

At length the first examination arrived, on the differential 
and integral calculus ; but I was in a kind of a strange 
mist, and had no clear conception of what awaited me. It 
occurred to me during the evening, after enjoying the society 
of Zukhin and his comrades, that it was necessary to make 
some change in my convictions ; that there was something 
about them which was not nice, and not just what it should 
be : but in the morning, in the light of the sun, I again 
became comme il faut, was very well content with that, and 
desired no alterations in myself. 

It was in this frame of mind that I came to the first exam- 
ination. I seated myself on a bench on the side where sat 
the princes, counts, and barons, and began to converse with 
them in French; and, strange as it may seem, the thouglit 
never occurred to me that I should presently be called upon 
to answer questions upon a subject which I knew nothing 
about. I gazed coolly at those who went up to be examined, 
and I even permitted myself to make fun of some of them. 

“Well, Gi'ap, how goes it?” I said to Ilinka when he 
returned from the table. “Did you get frightened?” 

“We’ll see how you come out,” said Ilinka, who had 
utterly lebelled against my influence from the day he entered 
the university, did not smile when I spoke to him, and was 
ill-dispf sjd towards me. 

I smiled scornfully at Iliuka’s reply, although the doubt 
which he expressed alarmed me for a moment. But the 
mist again spread itself over tliis feeling ; and I remained 
indifferent and absent-minded, so that I promised to go and 
lunch witli Baron Z. at Materna’s just as soon as I had been 
examined (as though this was a matter of the utmost insig- 
nificance to me). When I was called up with Ikonin, I 
arranged the skirts of my uniform, and stepped up to the 
examination table with perfect nonchalance. 


YOUTH. 


379 


A slight chill of terror coursed through my back only 
when the young professor — the same one who had ques- 
tioned me at the entrance examination — looked me straight 
in the face, and I touched the note-paper on which the ques- 
tions were written. Although Ikonin took his ticket with 
the same swaying of his whole body as during the preceding 
examinations, he answered after a fashion, though very 
badly. And I did what he had done at the first examina- 
tions : I did even worse ; for I took a second card, and made 
no reply at all. The professor looked me compassionately 
in the face, and said in a firm but quiet voice, — 

“You will not pass into the second class, Mr. Irteneff. 
It will be better not to present yourself for examination. 
This course must be weeded out. — And the same with you, 
Mr. Ikonin,” he added. 

Ikonin asked permission to be re-examined, as though it 
were an alms ; but the professor replied that he could not 
accomplish in two days what he had not accomplished in the 
course of a year, and that he could not possibly pass. Iko- 
nin begged again in a humble and pitiful manner, but the 
professor again refused. 

“You may go, gentlemen,” he said in the same low but 
firm voice. 

It was only then that I could make up my mind to leave 
the table ; and I was ashamed at having, as it were, taken 
part by my silence in Ikonin’s prayers. I do not remember 
how I traversed the hall, past the students ; what reply I 
made to their questions ; how I made my way into the ante- 
room, and got home. 

For three days I did not leave my room : I saw no one ; I 
found solace in tears, as in my childhood, and wept a great 
deal. 1 looked up my pistols, in order that I might shoot 
myself if I should want to do so very much. I thought that 
llinka Grap would spit in my face when he met me, and 
that he would be quite right in so doing ; that Operoff would 
rejoice in my misfortune, and tell everybody about it; that 
Kolpikoff was quite correct in insulting me at Jahr’s ; that 
my stupid speeches to Princess Kornakova could have no 
other result; and so on, and so on. All the moments of 
my life which had been torturing to my self-love, and hard, 
to bear, passed through my mind one after the other ; and I 
tried to blame some one else for my misfortunes. I thought 
that some one had done this on purpose ; I invented a whole 


380 


YOUTH. 


intrigue against myself ; I grumbled at the professors, at my 
comrades, at Volodya, at Dmitri, at papa because he had 
sent me to the university ; I complained of Providence for 
having allowed me to live to see such disgrace. Finally, 
conscious of my complete ruin in the e3’es of all who knew 
me, I begged papa to let me enter the hussars, or go to the 
Caucasus. Papa was displeased with me ; but, on seeing 
my terrible grief, he comforted me b}^ sa^dng that it was not 
so vei’y bad ; that matters might be arranged if I would take 
a different course of study. Volodya too, who did not see 
an}^ thing dreadful in ni}' misfortune, said that in another 
course I should at least not feel ashamed before my fellow- 
students. 

Our ladies did not understand it at all, and would not, or 
could not, comprehend what an examination was, — what it 
meant, to fail to pass ; and only pitied me, because they saw 
my grief. 

Dmitri came to see me every day, and was extremely gen- 
tle and tender during this whole period ; but, for that very 
reason, it seemed to me that he had grown cold towards me. 
It alwa^'s seemed to me a pain and an insult, wffien, mount- 
ing to my room, he sat down close to me in silence, with a 
little of that expression which a doctor wears when he seats 
himself at the bedside of a very sick man. Sophia Ivan- 
ovna and Varenka sent me books by him, which I had for- 
meiiv" wanted, and wished me to come to see them ; but, in 
this very attention, I perceived a haughty and insulting con- 
descension towards me, the man who had fallen so very low. 
At the end of three days, I became somewhat composed : 
but, even up to our departure for the country, I did not 
leave the house ; and, thinking only of my grief, I lounged 
idly from room to room, endeavoring to avoid all members 
of the household. 

I thought and thought ; and finally, late in the evening, as 
I was sitting down-stairs and listening to Avdotya Vasiliev- 
na’s waltz, I suddenly sprang up, ran up-stairs, got my note- 
book, on which was written, “ Rules of Life,” opened it, 
and a moment of repentance and moral expansion came over 
me. I wept, but no longer with tears of despair. AVhen I 
recovered myself, I decided to write down my rules of life 
again ; and I was firml}’ convinced that I should never hence- 
forth do any thing wrong, nor spend a single minute in idle- 
ness, nor ever alter my rules. 


YOUTH. 


381 


'Whether this moral impetus lasted long, in what it con- 
sisted, and what new laws it imposed upon my moral devel- 
opment, I shall relate in the following and happier half of 
mj^ 3'outh.^ 

1 Thia last half of the Memoirs, if written, has never been publishsd. 




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WHAT TO DO? 


THOUGHTS EVOKED BY THE CENSUS 
OF MOSCOW 


BY 

COUNT LYOF N. TOLSTOI 


A NEW AND AUTHORIZED TRANSLATION FROM THE 
UNABRIDGED RUSSIAN MANUSCRIPT 


NEW YORK 

THOMAS Y. CROWELL & CO, 


CoPTRIGIIT, 1888, 

By THOMAS y. CROWELL & CO, 


INTRODUCTION. 


Great social questions face us. They are rising like 
ominous storm-clouds above the horizon, not only in what 
are sometimes called the “ effete monarchies ” of the Old 
World, but here in this New World, in this favored land. 
Thoughtful men and women are everywhere busying them- 
selves with their solution. 

Side by side with the portentous increase of wealth, is the 
more portentous increase of destitution and crime. On the 
one side, unheard-o/ luxury ; on the other, desperate poverty. 
On the one side, pride and idleness ; on the other, beggary 
and anarchy. There are warnings in history, — two mighty 
warnings, — the fall of Rome, the French Revolution. Rome 
sowed the wind, and reaped the whirlwind. The French 
aristocracy cried, nous le dUuge;^^ but the deluge 

came wliile^ not after; it was a deluge of blood. 

Modern civilization is sowing the whirlwind : what shall 
we or our children reap ? There are enormous wrongs. Can 
they be righted while yet there is time? How? 

Various methods have suggested themselves. Some are 
visionary : some would be practicable if men’s eyes were 
oj^ened. 

Who doubts, that, if alcoholic drinks could be banished 
from the earth, the question of poverty and crime would be 
practically settled ? 

Meanwhile, associated charities rally earnest men and 
women, and home missionaries devote their lives to this 
work. 


iii 


IV 


INTRODUCTION, 


But still the problem grows more ominous. 

A voice from Russia — the voice, as it were, of a prophet 
— has proclaimed another and inexorable way. 

A nobleman, rich and famous, a popular novelist, a great 
land-owner, with every thing in his grasp that ambition might 
suggest, found himself face to face with this question. 

He had lived the idle, luxurious life of “the upper 
classes,” the world over, and thought to compound with his 
conscience by a dilettante system of money-giving. With 
this charitable object in view, he investigated the poverty of 
Moscow, which is exactly like the poverty of every other 
city, — Paris, London, New York, Berlin, Boston, — and 
after systematic examination he came to the conclusion that 
the mere giving of money only added to the existing evil. 

Then the great question took possession of him, — Wliat 
Must We Do ? 

He discovered a solution which he claims to be solution, 
and he has carried it out in the spirit of Sakya Muni and of 
Christ. 

Absolute renunciation in the line of the text, “Whoso 
loseth his life shall find it.” 

For Count Tolstoi, true life is to be found only in labor — 
bodily labor, mental labor, moral labor, all co-ordinated into 
the one struggle with nature — the struggle ,for existence in 
which every man must lend a hand to aid his neighbor. 

It is democracy pure and simple. 

It is socialism in its grim and classic but divine features. 

It is organized anarchy, if one may be permitted to use 
such a paradox. No rulers, no armies, no money, no taxes, 
no possessions, no cities, but every man living in accordance 
with the Golden Rule, eating his bread in the sweat of his 
brow ; while art and science, legitimate when removed from 
the realm of private gain, shall serve to educate the people, 
and make them better. 

The story of Count Tolstoi’s great struggle, and of his 


INTBOBUCTION. 


V 


arrival at the solution, is told by himself in a series of papers 
collected under the general head “ Wliat To Do / ” or, more 
correctly, “ What Must We Do Then? ” 

The theories presented, and the experiences related, were, 
in some details, too radical for an autocratic country like 
Russia ; and the authorized edition of Count Tolstoi’s col- 
lected writings, contains only garbled extracts from this 
work. 

The work circulates, however, in Russia, in unpublished 
form ; and a friend and disciple of the Count, having a copy 
in his possession, put it into an English translation, with the 
design that it should be published in America in a form cheap 
enough to reach the masses. Such is the explanation of the 
present edition of “ What To Do?"' It will be found in man}^ 
respects different from the translation published last year. 
It is complete and unabridged. 

The reader must not forget that it was written for Russians, 
and that, therefore, it must be judged with reference to Rus- 
sian conditions. But no one can read these glowing pages 
without a thrill of admiration for the honesty and manliness 
of the great novelist, who has himself shown his sincerity 
by adopting the manner of life which he holds up as the 
ideal of the world. 

His words are eloquent ; they ring often with solemn 
warning ; and they are to be read, not for curiosit}^, as those 
of a fanatic, but for instruction, as the prophecy of a seer. 

N. II. DOLE. 

Boston, Nov. 1, 1888. 


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WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 


And the people asked him, saying, What shall we do then? 

“ He answereth and saith unto them. He that hath two coats, let him impart to 
him that hath none; and he that hath meat, let him do likewise.” (Luke iii. 10, 11.) 

“ Lay not up for yourselves treasures upon earth, where moth and rust doth 
corrupt, and where thieves break through and steal : 

“ But lay up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor rust 
doth corrupt, and where thieves do not break through nor steal : 

“JFor where your treasure is, there will your heart be also. 

“ The light of the body is the eye : if therefore thine eye be single, thy whole 
body shall be full of light. 

“ But if thine eye be evil, thy whole body shall be full of darkness. If therefore 
the light that is in thee be darkness, bow great is that darkness! 

“No man can serve two masters: for either he will hate the one, and love the 
other; or else he will hold to the one, and despise the other. Ye cannot serve God 
and mammon. 

“ Therefore I say unto you. Take no thought for your life, what ye shall eat, or 
what ye shall drink; nor yet for your body, what ye shall put on. Is not the life 
more than meat, and the body than raiment? ” (Matt. vl. 19-25.) 

“Therefore take no thought, saying. What shall we eat? or. What shall we 
drink? or. Wherewithal shall we be clothed? 

“ (For after all these things do the Gentiles seek;) for your heavenly Fathei 
knoweth that ye have need of all these things. 

“But seek ye first the kingdom of God, and his righteousness; and all these 
things shall be added unto you.” (Matt. vi. 31-33.) 

“ For it is easier for a camel to go through a needle’s eye, thau for a rich man to 
enter into the kingdom of God.” (Luke xviii. 25.) 

I. 

Having passed the greater part of my life in the country, 
I came at lengtli, in the 3 ’ear 1881, to reside in Moscow, 
where I was immediately struck with the extreme state of 
jiaiiperism in that cit^L Tiiongh well ncqnainted with the 
jirivations of the poor in rural districts, I had not the faintest 
concci)tion of their actual condition in towns. 

In Moscow it is impossible to pass a street without meet- 
ing lieggars of a peculiar kind quite unlike those in the 

1 


9 


WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 


conntr 3 % who go about there, as the saving is, “ with a bag 
and the name of Clirist.” 

The Moscow ))eggars neither cany a bag nor ask for alms. 
In most cases when they meet you, the}' oul>' try to catcli 
your eye, and act according to the expression of your 
face. 

I know of one such, a bankrupt gentleman. He is an old 
man, who advances slowlv, limping painfully on each leg. 
When he meets you, he limps, and makes a bow. If you 
stop, he takes off his caj), furnished with a cockade, bows 
again, and begs. If you do not stop, he pretends only to be 
lame, and continues limping along. 

That is a specimen of a genuine Moscow beggar, and^ an 
experienced one. 

At first I did not know why such mendicants did not ask 
openly ; but afterwards 1 learned why, without understanding 
the reason. 

One day I saw a policeman push a ragged peasant, all 
swollen from drops}*, into a cab. I asked what he had been 
doing, and the policeman replied, — 

Begging.” 

‘Ms begging, then, forbidden?” 

“ 8o it seems,” he answered. As the man was being 
driven away, I took another cab, and followed. 1 wished to 
find out whether mendicancy was really forbidden, and if so, 
why it was? I could not at all understand how it was pos- 
sible to forbid one man asking something from another ; and, 
moreover, I had my doubts whether it was illegal in a city 
where it flourished to such an extent. 

I entered the police-station w*here the pauper had been 
taken, and asked an official armed with sword and pistol, 
and seated at a table, what he had been arrested for. 

The man looked up at me sharply, and said, “ What 
business is that of yours? ” 

However, feeling the necessity of some explanation, he 
added, “ The authorities order such fellows to be arrested, 
so I suppose it is necessary.” 

I went away. The policeman who had brought the man 
was sitting in the window of the ante-room, studying his 
note-book. I said to him, — 

“ Is it really true that poor people are not .allowed to ask 
for alms in Christ’s name? ” 

The man started, as if waking up from a sleep, stared at 


WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 3 

mo, then relapsed again into a state of stolid indifference, 
and, reseating liimself on the window-sill, said, — 

‘‘ d'he authorities require it, so 3 ’ou see it is necessaiy.” 

And as he became again absorbed in his note-book, 1 went 
down the ste[)s towards my cab. 

‘■•Weil! have they locked him up?” asked the cabman. 
He had evidently become interested in the matter. 

“They liave,” I answered. He shook his head. 

“ Is begging, then, forbidden here in Moscow? ” I asked. 

“ I can’t tell you,” he said. 

“How,” I said, “ can a man be locked up, for begging in 
the name of Christ?” 

“ Nowadays things have changed, and you see it is for- 
bidden,” he answered. 

Since that time, I have seen policemen several times taking 
paui)ers to the police-station, and thence to the work-house : 
indeed, I once met a whole crowd of these poor creatures, 
about thirty, escorted before and behind by policemen. I 
asked what they had been doing. 

“ Begging,” was the reply. 

It appears that, according to law, mcdicancy is forbidden 
in Moscow, notwithstanding the great number of beggars 
one meets there in every street, whole rows of them near the 
churches during service-time, and most of all at funerals. 
But why are some caught and locked up, while others are 
let alone? This I have not been able to solve. Phther 
there are lawful and unlawful beggars amongst them, or else 
there are so many that it is impossible to catch them all ; 
or, perhaps, though some are taken up, others fill their 
places. 

There are a great variety of such mendicants in Moscow. 
There are those that make a living by begging. There are 
also honestlv destitute people, such as have somehow 
chanced to reach Moscow, and are really in extreme 
need. 

Amongst these last are men and women evident!}" from the 
country. I have often met such. Some of them who had 
fallen ill, and afterward recovered and left the hospital, 
could now find no means, either of feeding themselves, or of 
getting away from Moscow ; some of them, besides, had taken 
to drink (such probably was the case of the man with dropsy 
whom I met) ; some were in good health, but had been 
burned out of house and home, or else were very old, or were 


4 


WHAT MUST ]VE DO THEN? 


wklovved or deserted women with children ; some others were 
sound as to health, and quite capable of working. 

These robust fellows esi)ecially interested me, — the more 
so, because, since my airival iu Moscow, I had, for the sake 
of exei-cise, contracted the habit of going to the Spaiiovv 
Hills, and working there with two peasants, who sawed wood. 
These men were exactly like the beggars whom 1 often met 
in the streets. One was called Peter, and was an ex-soldier 
from Kaluga ; the other, Nimon, from Vladimir. They pos- 
sessed nothing save the clothes on their backs : and they 
earned, by working very hard, from forty to forty-live 
kopeks a day ; out of this they both put a little aside, — the 
Kaluga soldier, in order to buy a fur coat ; the \'ladimir 
peasant, in order to get money enough to return to his home 
in the country. 

- INleeting, therefore, in the streets similar individuals, I was 
particularly interested in them, and failed to understand wh}^ 
some begged whilst others worked. 

AVhenever 1 met a beggar of this description, I used to ask 
him how it was that he had come to such a state. Once 
I met a strong, healthy-lookiug peasant : he asked alms. 1 
questioned him as to who he was, and whence he had come. 

He told me he had come from Kaluga, in search of work. 
He had at first found some, such as sawing old timber into 
fire-wood ; but after he and his comi)anion had finished the 
job, tliough they had continually looked for more work, 
they had not found any ; his companion had left him, and he 
himself had passed a fortnight in the utmost need, and, hav- 
ing sold all he possessed to obtain food, had not now enough, 
even to buy the tools necessary for sawing. 

I gave him the money for a saw, and told him where to go 
for work. I had previousl}" arranged with Peter and Simon 
that they should accept a new fellow- worker, and find him a 
companion. 

‘‘ Be sure you come ! There is plenty of work to be done,” 
I said on parting. 

“You may depend on me,” he answered. “Do you 
think there can be any pleasure in knocking about, begging, 
if I could work?” 

The man solemnly promised that he would come ; and he 
seemed to be honest, and really meaning to work. 

Next day, on coming to my friends, Peter and Simon, I 
asked them whether the man had arrived. They said he had 


WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 5 

not ; nor, indeed, did he come -at all : and in this way I was 
IVeq 1 1 e n t ly d e c e i v ed . 

1 have also been deceived by those who stated that they 
only wanted a little money to buy a ticket, in order to return 
home, and whom 1 again met in the streets a few days later. 
jMuny of them 1 came to know well, and they knew me; 
though occasionally, having forgotten me, they would repeat 
the same false tale ; but sometimes they would turn away on 
recognizing me. 

In this way I discovered, that, even in this class of men, 
there are many rogues. 

I>ut still, these poor rogues were also very much to be 
pitied : they were all of them ragged, hungry paui)ers.; the}’ 
are of the sort who die of cold in the streets, or hang them- 
selves to escape living, as the papers frequently tell us. 


IL 

AYiien I talked to my town friends about this pauperism 
w’hich sui-i-ounded them, they always replied, ‘‘Oh ! you have 
seen nothing yet ! You should go to the Khitrof Market, 
and visit the lodging-houses there, if you want to see the 
genuine ‘ Golden Company.’ ” 

One jovial friend of mine added, that the number of these 
paupers had so increased, that they already formed, not a 
“Golden Company,” but a “ Golden Regiment.” 

My lively friend was right ; but he would have been yet 
nearer the truth had he said that these men formed, in 
Moscow, not a com})any, nor a regiment, but a whole army, 
— an army, I should judge, of about fifty thousand. 

The regular townspeople, when they spoke to me about 
the pauperism of the city, always seemed to feel a certain 
l)leasure or pride in being able to give me such precise 
information. 

I remember I noticed, when visiting London, that the 
citizens there seemed also to find a certain satisfaction in 
telling me about Loudon destitution, as though it were some- 
thing to be proud of. 

However, wishing to inspect this poverty about which I 
had heard so much, I turned my steps very often towards 
the Khitrof Market; but, on each occasion, I felt a sensation 
of pain and shame. “ Why should you go to look at the 


6 


WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 


siifTei'ing of liiiman beings whom yon cannot help? ” said one 
voice within me. “ If you live liere, and see all tliat is 
pleasant in town life, go and see also what is wretched,” 
replied another. 

And so, one cold, windy day in December, two years 
ago, I went to the Khitrof Market, the centre of the town 
l)auperism. 

It was on a week-day, about four in the afternoon. AVhile 
still a good distance off, I noticed greater and greater num- 
bers of men in strange garb, evidentl}^ not originally meant 
for them ; and in yet stranger foot-apparel, men of a peculiar 
unhealthy c()mi)lexion, and all apparently showing a remark- 
able indifference to all that surrounded them. 

Men in the strangest, most incongiuous costumes saun- 
tered along, evident 1}' without the least thought as to how 
they might look in the eyes of others. They were all going 
in the same direction. Without asking the way, which was 
unknown to me, 1 followed them, and came to the Khitrof 
Market. 

There I found women likewise in ragged capes, rough- 
looking cloaks, jackets, boots, and goloslies. Perfeetl}" free 
and easy in their manner, notwithstanding the grotesque 
monstrosit}' of their attire, these women, old and young, were 
sitting, bargaining, strolling about, and abusing one another. 

IMarket-time having evidently passed, there were not 
many people there ; and as most of them were going up-hill, 
through tlie market-place, and all in the same direction, I 
followed them. 

The farther I went, the greater became the stream of 
people flowing into the one road. Having passed the mar- 
ket. and gone iq) the street, I found that 1 was following two 
women, one old, the other young. Both were clothed in 
some gray ragged stuff. They were talking, as they walked, 
about some kind of business. 

EveiT expression was unfailingly accompanied by some 
obscene word. They were neither of them drunk, but were 
absorbed with tlieir own affairs ; and the men passing, and 
those about them, paid not the slightest attention to their 
language, which sounded so strange to me. It appeared to 
be the generally accepted manner of speech in those parts. 
On the left we passed some private night-lodging-houses, 
and some of the crowd entered them : others continued to 
ascend the hill towards a large corner house. The majority 


WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 


7 


of the people walking along with me went into this house. 
In front of it, i)eople all of the same sort were standing and 
sitting, on the sidewalk and in the snow. 

At the right of tlie entrance were women ; at the left, men. 
T passed h}' the men : I passed by the women (thoi’e were 
several hundreds in all), and stopped where the crowd 
ceased. 

This building was the “ Liapin free night-lodging-honse.” 
The crowd was composed of night-lodgers, waiting to be let 
in. At five o’clock in the evening this house is o[)ened and 
the crowd admitted. Hither came almost all the people whom 
I followed. 

1 remained standing where the file of men ended. Those 
nearest to me stared at me till I had to look at them. The 
remnants of garments covering their bodies were very 
various : but the one expression of the e3-es of all alike 
seemed to be, “• Wh}' have you, a man from another world, 
stopped hei'e with us? AVho are you? Are you a self- 
satisfied man of wealth, desiring to be gladdened by the sight 
of our need, to divert 3'ourself in your. idleness, and to mock 
at us ? or are you that which does not and can not exist, — 
a man who pities us?” 

On all their faces the same question was written. Each 
would look at me, meet my eyes, and turn away again. 

1 wanted to speak to some one of them, but for a long 
time I could not summon up courage. However, eventually 
our mutual exchange of glances introduced us to each other ; 
and we felt that, however widely separated were our social 
positions in life, after all we were fellow-men, and so ceased 
to be afraid of one another. 

Next to me stood a i)easant with a swollen face, and red 
beard, in a ragged jacket, and worn-out goloshes on his 
naked feet, though there were eight degrees of frost. ^ For 
the third or fourth time our eyes met; and I felt so drawn 
to him that I v/as no longer ashamed to address him (to have 
refrained from doing so would have been the only real 
shame), and asked him where he came from. 

He answei’ed eagerly, while a crowd began to collect round 
ns, that he had come from Smolensk in search of work, in 
order to be able to buy bread, and pa}^ his taxes. 

“ There is no work to be had nowada3’s,” he said: “the 
soldiers have got hold of it all. So here am 1 knocking 

^ Reaumur. 


8 


WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 


about ; and God is m3' witness, I have not had aii}^ thing to 
eat for two days.” 

lie said this shvl3^ with an attempt at a smile. A seller^ 
of warm drinks, nn old soldier, was standing near. I called 
him, and made him pour out a glass for him. The peasant 
took the warm vessel in his hands, and, before drinking, 
warmed tliem against the glass, tiying not to lose anv of the 
precious heat ; and whilst doing this he related to me his 
stoi’v. 

liie adventures of these people, or at least the stories 
which they tell, are almost alwa3"s the same : He had had 
a little work ; then it had ceased : and here, in the night-lodg- 
ing-house, his purse, containing his mone}^ and pass[)ort, had 
been stolen from him. Now he could not leave Moscow. 

He told me that during the day he wai'ined himself in 
public-houses, eating any stale crust of bread which might 
be given him. His night’s lodging here in Liapin’s house 
cost him nothing. 

He was only waiting for the round of the police-sergeant 
to lock him up for being without his passport, when he would 
be sent on foot, with a party of men similarly situated, to 
the place of his birth. 

“They say the inspection will take place on Thursday, 
when I shall be taken up ; so I must try and keep on until 
then.” (The prison aiul his compulsory journe3' appeared 
to him as the “ promised land.”) While he was speaking, 
two or three men in the crowd said they were also in exactly 
the same situation. 

A thin, pale youth, with a long nose, onl}^ a shirt upon his 
back, and that torn about the shoulders, and a tattered cap 
on his head, edged his way to me through the crowd. He 
was shivering violently all the time, but tried, as he caught 
my eye, to smile scornfully at the peasant’s talk, thinking 
thus to show his superiorit}^ 

I offered him some drink. 

He warmed his hands on the tumbler as the other had done ; 
but just as he began to speak, he was shouldered aside by 
a big, black, hook-nosed, bare-headed fellow, in a thin shirt 
and waistcoat, who also asked for some drink. 

Then a tall old man, with a thin beard, in an overcoat 
fastened round the waist with a cord, and in matting-shoes, 
had some. He was drunk. 

1 A sbiteu-seller : sbiten is a hot driuk made of herbs or spices aud molasses. 


WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 


9 


Then came a little man, with a swollen face and teary eyes, 
in a coarse brown jacket, and witli knees protruding thi‘o\igli 
his t(.)rn trousers, and knocking against each other with cold, 
lie shivered so that he could not hold the glass, and spilled 
the contents over his clothes: the others took to abusing 
him, l)ut he only grinned miserably, and shivered. 

After him came an ugly, deformed man in rags, and with 
bare feet. Then an individual of the ollicer type ; another 
belonging to the church class ; then a strange-lo(;king being 
witliout a nose, — and all of them hungry, cold, supi)liant, and 
humble, — crowded round me, and stretched out tlieir hands 
for the glass ; but the drink was exhausted. Then one man 
asked for money : I gave him some. A second and a thiid 
followed, till the whole crowd i)ressed on me. In the general 
confusion the gatekeeper of the neighboring house shouted 
to the crowd to clear tlie pavement before his house, and the 
people submissively ol)eyed. 

ISome of them undertook to control the tumult, and took 
me under their protection. They attempted to drag me out 
of the crush. But the crowd that formerly had lined the 
pavement in a long file, no\v had become condensed about 
me. Every one looked at me and begged ; and it seemed as 
if each face were more pitiful, harassed, and degraded than 
the other. I distributed all the money I had, — only about 
twenty rubles, — and entered the lodging-house with the 
crowd. The house was enormous, and consisted of four parts. 
In the upper stories were the men’s rooms; on the ground- 
floor the women’s. I went first into the women’s dormitory, 
— a large room, filled with beds resembling the berths in a 
third-class railway-carriage. They were arranged in two 
tiers, one above the other. 

Strange-looking women in ragged dresses, without jackets, 
old and 3 ’oung, kept coming in and occupying places, some 
below, others climbing above. Some of the elder ones 
crossed themselves, pronouncing the name of the founder of 
the refuge. Some laughed and swore. 

1 went up-stairs. There, in a similar way, the men had 
taken their [)laces. Amongst them I recognized one of those 
to whom I had given money. On seeing him 1 suddenly felt 
liorribl}^ ashamed, and made haste to leave. 

And with a sense of having cotnmitted some crime, I 
returned liome. There 1 entei'ed along the carpeted steps 
into the rug-covered hall, and, having taken off my fur coat. 


10 


WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 


sat down to a meal of five courses, served by two footmen in 
Jivery, with wliite ties and white gloves. And a scene of the 
past came siiddenl}^ before me. Thirty years ago I saw 
a man’s head cut off under the guillotine in Paris before a 
crowd of thousands of spectators. 1 was aware that the 
man had been a great criminal : I was aeipiainted with all 
the arguments in justification of cajiital punishment for such 
offences. I saw tliis execution carried out deliberately : Imt 
at the moment tliat the head and body were severed from 
each other by the keen blade, I gas[)ed, and realized in every 
fibre of my being, that all the arguments which I liad hitherb) 
heard upon cajiital punishment were wickedly false ; that, no 
matter how many might agree as to its being a lawful act, it 
was literally murder ; whatever other title men might give 
it, they thus had virtually committed murder, that worst of all 
crimes : and there was I, both by my silence and my non- 
interference, an aider, abetter, and participator in the sin. 

Similar convictions were now again forced upon me when 
I beheld the misery, cold, hunger, and humiliation of thou- 
sands of my fellow-men. I realized not only with my brain, 
but in every pulse of my soul, that, whilst there were thou- 
sands of such sufferers in Moscow, I, with tens of thousands 
of others, filled myself daily to repletion with luxurious 
dainties of every descri[)tion, took the tenderest care of my 
horses, and clothed my very floors with velvet carpets ! 

AVhatcver the wise and learned of the world might say 
about it, however unalterable the course of life might seem to 
be, the same evil was continually being enacted, and I, by my 
own personal habits of luxury, was a promoter of that evil. 

The difference between the two cases was only this: that 
in the first, all I could have done would have been to shout 
out to the murderers standing near the guillotine, who were 
accomplishing the deed, that they were committing a murder, 
though of course knowing that my interference would have 
been in vain. AVhereas, in this second case, I might have 
given away, not only the drink and the small sum of mone}" I 
had with me, but also the coat from off nyy shoulders, and 
all that I possessed at home. Yet I had not done so, 
and therefore felt, and feel, and can never cease to feel, 
myself a partaker in a erime which is continually being com- 
mitted, so long as I have superfluous food whilst others have 
none, so long as 1 have two coats whilst there exists one 
man without any. 


WIIAT MUST WE DO THEN? 


11 


III. 

On the same evening that I returned from Liapin’s house, 
I imparted my im[)ressions to a friend : and he, a resident of 

the town, began to ex[)lain to me, not without a certain 

satisfaction, tliat this was the most natural state of things in 
a town ; that it was only owing to my [)rovincialism that I 
found any thing rernaikable in it ; and that it had ever 
been, and ever would be, so, such being one of the 
inevitable conditions of civilization. In London it was 
yet worse, . . . therefore there could be nothino; wrong 
about it, and there was nothing to be disturbed and troubled 
about. 

I begnn to argue with my friend, but with such warmth 

and so angrily, that my wife rushed in from the adjoining 

room to ask what had hapi)ened. It appeared that I had, 
without being aware of it, shouted out in an agonized voice, 
gesticulating wildly, “ We should not go on living in this 
way! we must not live so! we have no right!” I was 
rebuked for my unnecessary excitement; I was told that I 
could not talk quietly upon any question ; that I was irrita- 
ble ; and it was pointed out to me that the existence of such 
misery as I had witnessed, should in no wa}^ be a reason 
for embittering the life of my home-circle. 

I felt that tliis w'as perfectly just, and held my tongue ; 
but in the depth of my soul I knew that I was right, and I 
could not quiet my conscience. 

I'lie towm life, wdiich had previously seemed alien and 
strange to me, became now so hateful that all the indul- 
gences of a luxurious existence, in which I had formerly 
delighted, now served to torment me. 

However much I tried to find some kind of excuse for my 
mode of life, I could not contemplate without irritation 
either my own or other people’s drawing-rooms, nor a clean, 
richly served dinner-table, nor a carriage with well-fed 
coachman and horses, nor the shops, theatres, and enter- 
tainments. I could not help seeing, in contrast with all this, 
those hungry, shivering, and degraded inhabitants of the 
night- lodging-house. And I could never free myself from 
the thought that these two conditions w^ere inse[)arable — 
that the one proceeded from the other. I remember that the 
sense of culpability which I had felt from the first moment 


12 


WHAT MUST WE DO THEN f 


never left me ; but with this feeling another soon became 
mingled, which lessened the first. 

When I talked to my intimate friends and acquaintances 
about my impressions on Liapin’s house, the}’ all answered 
in the same way, and ex[)ressed besides their appreciation of 
my kindness and tender-heartedness, and gave me to under- 
stand that the sight had so imoressed me because I, Leo 
Tolstoi, was kind-hearted and good. And 1 willingly 
allowed myself to believe it. 

The natural consequence of this was, that the first keen 
sense of self-reproach and shame was blunted, and was re- 
placed by a sense of satisfaction at my own virtue, and a 
desire to make it known to others. “ It is in truth,” I said 
to myself, ‘‘ probably not my connection with a luxurious 
life which is at fault, but the unavoidable circumstances of 
life. And thus a change in my particular life cannot alter 
the evil which 1 have seen.” 

In changing my own life, I should only render myself and 
those nearest and dearest to me miserable, whilst that other 
misery would remain the same ; and therefore my object 
should be, not to alter my own way of living, as 1 had at 
first imagined, but to try as much as was in my power to 
ameliorate the position of those unfortunate ones who had 
excited my compassion. 

The whole matter, I reasoned, lies in the fact that I, being 
an extremely kind and good man, wish to do good to my 
fellow-men. And I began to arrange a plan of philanthropic 
activity in which I might exhibit all my virtues. I must, 
however, here remark, that, while planning this charitable 
effort, in the depth of my heart I felt that I was not doing 
the right thing ; but, as too often happens, reason and im- 
agination were stifling the voice of conscience. About this 
tune the census was being taken, and it seemed to me a good 
oiiportunity for instituting that charitable organization in 
which I wanted to shine. 

1 was acquainted with many philanthropic institutions and 
societies already existing in Moscow, but all their activity 
seemed to me both wrongly directed and insignificant in 
comparison with what I myself wished to do. And this was 
what I invented to excite sympathy amongst the rich people 
for the poor : I began to collect money, and enlist men who 
wished to help in the work, and who would, in company with 
the census officers, visit all the nests of pauperism, entering 


WIIAT MUST WE DO THEN? 


13 


into relations with the poor, finding ont the details of their 
needs, helping them with money and work, sending them out 
of Moseow, [ilacing their children in schools, and their old 
men and women in homes and houses of refuge. 

I thought, moreover, that, from those who undertook this 
work, there could be formed a pci-manent society, which, 
dividing between its members the various districts of Mos- 
cow, would take care that new cases of want and misery 
should be avoided, and so by degrees stifle pauiierism at its 
very birth, accomplishing their task, not so much by cure, as 
by prevention. 

1 already saw in the future, begging and poverty entirely 
disappearing, I having been the means of its accom[)lishment. 
Then all of us who were rich could go on living in all our 
luxury as before, dwelling in fine houses, eating dinners of 
five courses, driving in our carriages to theatres and enter- 
tainments, and no longer being harassed by such sights as I 
had witnessed at Liapin’s house. 

Having invented this plan, I wrote an article about it; and, 
before even giving it to be printed, I went to those acquaint- 
ances from whom I hoped to obtain co-operation, and ex- 
pounded to all whom I visited that day (chiefly the rich) the 
ideas I afterwards i)ublished in my article. 

I proposed to profit by the census in order to study the 
state of pauperism in Moscow, and to help to exterminate it 
by ))ersonal effort and money, after which we might all wiili 
a (juiet conscience enjoy our usual i)leasures. All listened 
to me attentively and seriously ; but, in every case, I re- 
marked that the moment my hearers came to understand 
what [ was driving at, they seemed to become uncomfortable 
and somewhat embarrassed. Jkit it was principally, I feel 
sure, on my account; because they considered all that I snid 
to be folly. It seemed as though some other motive compelled 
my listeners to agree for the moment with my foolishness. 
— “-Oh, yes! Certainly. It would be delightful,” they 
said: “of course it is impossible not to sympathize with 
you. Your idea is splendid. I myself have had the same ; 
l)ut . . . people here are so indifferent, that it is hardly rea- 
sonable to expect a great success. However, as far as I am 
concerned, I am, of coui’se, i-eady to share in the enter[)rise.” 

Similar answers I received from all. Thc}^ consented, as 
it appeared to me, not because they were pei’suaded by my 
arguments, nor in cojn[)liance with my rcqiiest, but because 


14 


WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 


of some exterior reason, which rendered it impossible for 
them to refuse. 

1 remarked this partly because none of those who promised 
me their help in the form of money, defined the sum they 
meant to give ; so that I had to name the amount by asking, 
‘‘ May I count upon you for twenty-five, or one hundred, or 
two hundred, or three hundred, rubles?” And not one of 
them paid the money. 1 diaw attention to this fact, because, 
when people are going to pay for what they are anxious to 
liave, the}’ are generally in haste to give it. Suppose it were 
to secure a box to see Sarah Bernhardt, the money is imme- 
diately produced. Here, however, of all who ugreed to give, 
and ex[)ressed their sympathy, no one immediately produced 
the amount, but merely silently acquiesced in the sum 1 hap- 
pened to name. 

In the last house I visited that day, there was a large party. 
The mistress of the house had for some years been employed 
in works of charity. Several carriages were waiting at the 
door of the house. Footmen in expensive liveries were 
seated in the hall. In the spacious drawing-room, ladies, 
old and young, wearing rich dresses and ornaments, were 
talking to some young men, and dressing up small dolls, 
destined for a lottery in aid of the poor. 

The sight of this drawing-room, and of the people assem- 
bled there, struck me very painfully. For not only was their 
property worth several million rubles ; not only could the 
interest on the capital spent here on dresses, laces, bronzes, 
jewels, carriages, horses, liveries, footmen, exceed a hundred 
limes the value of these ladies’ work ; not only was this tlie 
case, — but even the expenses caused by this very [larty of 
ladies and gentlemen, the gloves, linen, candles, tea, sugar, 
cakes, all this represented a sum a hundred times exceed- 
ing the value of the work done. 

I saw all this, and therefore might have understood thaf 
here, at all events, I should not find sympathy for 1113" plan ; 
but I had come in order to give an invitation, and, howevei 
painful it was to me, I said what I wished to sa}^, repeating 
almost the words of my article. 

One lady iiresent offered me some money, adding that, 
owing to her sensibilities, she did not feel strong enough to 
visit the poor herself, but that she would give help in this 
form. How much money, and when she would give it, she 
did not say. Another lad}’ and a young man offered their 


WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 


15 


services in visiting the poor, but I did not profit by tbeir 
offer. The princi[)al person I addressed, told me that it 
would be ini[)ossible to do much, because the means were 
not forthcoming. And the means were scarce, because all 
the rich men in Moscow who were known, and could be 
counted upon, had given all it was possible to get from them ; 
their charities having already been rewarded with titles, 
medals, and other distinctions, this being the only effectual 
method of insuring success in the collection of money, — 
namely, to obtain new honors from the authorities, and that 
being very dillicult. 

Having returned home, I went to bed, not only with a pre- 
sentiment that nothing would result from my idea, but also 
with the shameful consciousness of having, during the whole 
day, been doing something vile and contemptible. However, 
I did not desist. 

First, the work had been begun, and false shame would 
have prevented niy giving it up ; secondly, not only the 
success of the enterprise itself, but even my occupation in 
it, afforded me the possibility of continuing to live in my 
usnal way : whereas, the failure of this enterprise would 
have put me under the constraint of giving up my present 
mode of life, and of seeking another. Of this, 1 was un- 
consciously afraid : therefore, I refused to listen to my inner 
voice, and continued what 1 had begun. 

Having sent my article to be printed, I read a proof-copy 
at a census-meeting in the town-hall, hesitatingly, and blush- 
ing till my cheeks binned again, so uncomfortable did I feel. 

I saw that all my hearers felt equally uncomfortatile. 

Upon my question, whether the managers of the census 
would accept my proposal that they should remain at their 
posts in order to form a link between society and those in 
need, an awkward silence ensued. 

Then two of those present made speeches, which seemed 
to mend the awkwardness of my suggestions: sympathy for 
me was expressed along with their general approbation. 
They, however, pointed out the impracticability of my 
scheme. Every one seemed more at ease : but afterwards, 
when, still vvishing to succeed, I asked each district man- 
ager separately, whether he was willing during the census 
to investigate the needs of the poor, and afterwards remain 
at his post in order to form this link between the poor 
aud the rich, all again were confounded; it seemed as 


16 


WHAT MUST WE BO THEN? 


though their looks said, “ Win’, out of personal regard for 
you, we have listened to your silly proposition ; but here you 
come out with it again ! ” Such was the expression of their 
faces, but in words they told me that they consented ; and 
two of them, separately, but as though they had agreed 
together, said in the same words, ‘■‘We regard it as our 
moral duty to do so.” The same impression was produced 
by my words upon the students, who had volunteered to act 
as clerks during the census, when 1 told them that they might 
then, besides their scientific pursuits, accomplish also a 
charitable work. 

When we talked the matter over, I noticed that they were 
shy of looking me straight in the face, as one often hesitates 
to look into the face of a good-natured man who is talking 
nonsense, ddie same impression was produced by my article 
upon the editor of the paper when I handed it to him ; also 
upon my son, my wife, and various other people. Every one 
seemed embarrassed, but all found it necessary to approve 
of the idea itself ; and all, immediately after this approba- 
tion, began to express their doubts as to the success of the 
plan, and, for some reason or other (all without exception), 
took to condemning the indifference and coldness of society 
and of the world, though evidently excluding themselves. 

In the depth of my soul, I continued to feel that all this 
was not the right thing, that nothing would come of it ; but 
the ai'ticle had been ])rinted, and I had agreed to take part 
in the census. 1 had put a plan into action, and now the 
plan itself drew me along. 


IV. 

In accordance with my request, the part of the town 
was assigned to ine for the census which contained the 
houses generally known under the name of the Rzhanoff 
lodgings. I had long before heard that the}^ were consid- 
ered to be the lowest circle of povert3' and vice, and that 
was the reason tliat I asked the otllcers of the census to 
assign me this district. 

JMy desire was gratified. 

Having received the appointment from the Town Council, 
I went, a few days before the census, alone, to inspect my 
district. With the help of a plan 1 was furnished with, I 


WHAT MUST WE BO THEN? 


17 


soon found the Rzlianoff Honses, — approached by a street, 
which terminated on the left-hand side of a gloomy building 
M’ithout any apparent entrance. From the aspect of this 
house, I guessed it was the one I was in search of. On de- 
scending the street, I had come across some boys, from ten 
to fourteen years old, in short coats, sliding down the frozen 
gutter, some on their feet, others upon a single skate. 

The boys were ragged, and, like all town bo 3 's, sharp and 
bold. 1 stopped to look at them. An old woman in torn 
clothes, with hanging yellow cheeks, came round the corner. 
She was going up-hill, and, like a horse out of wind, gasped 
painfully at every step ; and, when abreast of me, she stopped 
with hoarse, choking breath. In an^^ other place, this old 
woman would have asked alms of me, but here she only 
began to talk. 

‘‘Just look at them!” she said, pointing to the sliding 
bo 3 ’s ; “ alwa}^s at mischief! They will become the same 
Rzhanoff good-for-nothings as their fathers.” One boy, in 
an overcoat and visorless cap, overhearing her words, stopped. 
“ You shut up ! ” he shouted. “ You’re only an old Rzhanoff 
goat yourself ! ” 

1 asked the bo}' if he lived here. “ Yes, and so does she. 
She stole some boots,” he called out, and, pushing himself 
off, slid on. 

The woman gave vent to a torrent of abuse, interrupted 
by her cough. During this squabble an old white-haired 
man, all in rags, came down the middle of the street, brand- 
ishing his arms, and carrying in one hand a bundle of small 
loaves. He seemed to have just fortified himself with a glass 
of liquor. He had evidently heard the old woman’s abuse, 
and took her side. 

“ I’ll give it you, you little devils, you!” he cried out, 
pretending to rush after them ; and, having passed behind me, 
he stepped upon the pavement. If you saw this old man in 
a fashionable street, you would be struck with his air of de- 
crepitude, feebleness, and ])Overty. Here he appeared in 
the character of a merry workman, returning from his day’s 
labor. 

I followed him. He turned round the corner to the left 
into an alley ; and, having passed the fiont of the house and 
the gate, he disappeared through the door of an inn. Into 
this alley the doors of the latter, a public-house, and several 
small eating-houses, oi)ened. It was the Rzhanoff Houses. 


18 


WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 


Every thing was gray, dirty, find foul-smelling, — buildings, 
lodgings, courts, and people. Most of those 1 met here were 
in tattered clothes, half naked. Some were passing along, 
others were running from one door to another. Two were 
bargaining about some rags. I went round the whole build- 
ing, down another lane and a court, and, having returned, 
stopped at the archway of the Rzhanoff Houses. 

1 wanted to go in, and see what was going on inside, but 
the idea made me feel painfully awkward. What should I 
say if they asked me what 1 had come for? 

However, after a little hesitation, I went in. The moment 
I entered the court, I was conscious of a most revolting 
odor. The court was dreadfully dirty. I turned round the 
corner, and at the same instant heard the steps of people 
running along the boards of the gallery, and thence down the 
stairs. 

First a gaunt-looking woman, with tucked-up sleeves, a 
faded pink dress, and shoes on her stockingless feet, rushed 
out ; after her, a rough-haired man in a red shirt, and ex- 
tremely wide trousers, like a petticoat, and with goloshes on 
his feet. The man caught her under the stairs: “You 
sha’n’t escape me,” he said, laughing. 

“ Just listen to the squint-eyed devil ! ” began the woman, 
who was evidently not averse to his attentions ; but, having 
caught sight of me, she exclaimed angrily, “ Who are you 
looking for?” As I did not want anyone in particular, I 
felt somewhat confused, and went away. 

This little incident, though by no means remarkable in 
itself, suddenly showed to me the work I was about to under- 
take in an entirely new light, especially after what I had 
seen on the other side of the courtyard, — the scolding 
old woman, the light-hearted old man, and the sliding boys. 
I had meditated doing good to these people by the help of 
the rich men of Moscow. I now realized, for the first time, 
that all these poor unfortunates, whom I had been wishing 
to help, had, besides the time they spent suffering from cold 
and hunger, in waiting to get a lodging, several hours daily 
to get through, and that they must somehow fill up the rest 
of the twenty-four hours of every day, — a whole life, of 
which I had never thought before. I realized now, for the 
first time, that all tliese people, besides the mere effort to 
find food and shelter from Ihe cold, must live through the 
rest of every day of their life as other peojile have to do. 


WHAT MUST WE BO THEN? 


19 


must get angry at times, and be dull, and try to appear bglit- 
liearted, and be sad or merry. And now, foi- the first tune 
(however strange the confession may sound), 1 was fully 
aware that the task which I was undertaking could not 
simply consist in feeding and clothing a thousand i)eople 
(jnst as one might feed a thousand head of sheep, and drive 
them into shelter), but must develop s(une more essential 
help. And when I considered that each one of these in- 
dividuals was just such another man as myself, possessing 
also a past history, with the same [)assi(jns, temptations, 
and eriors, the same thoughts, the same questions to be 
answered, then suddenly the work before me api)eared stu- 
pendous, and 1 felt my own utter helplessness ; — but it had 
been begun, and 1 was resolved to continue it. 


V. 

On the appointed day, the students who were to assist me 
started early in the morning ; while I, the instigator, only 
joined them at twelve o’clock. I could not come earlier; as 
1 did not get up till ten, after which I had to take some 
coffee, . and then smoke for the sake of my digestion. Twelve 
o’clock then found me at the door of the Rzhanoff Houses. 
A policeman showed me a public-house, to which the ceusus- 
clerks referred all those who wished to inquire for them. I 
entered, and found it very dirty and unsavory. Here, right 
in front of me, was a counter ; to the left a small room, fur- 
nished with tables covered with soiled napkins ; to the right 
a large room on pillars, containing similar little tables placed 
in the windows and along the walls ; with men here and 
there having tea, some very ragged, others well dressed, ap- 
parently workmen or small shopkeepers. There were also 
several women. In spite of the dirt, it was easy to see, by 
the business air of the man in charge, and the ready, obliging 
manners of the waiters, that the eating-house was driving a 
good trade. I had no sooner entered than one of the waiters 
was already preparing to assist me in getting off my over- 
coat, and anxious to take my orders, showing that evidently 
the people here were in the habit of doing their work quickly 
and readily. 

My inquiry for the census-clerks was answered by a call 
for “Vanya” from a little man dressed in foreign fashion, 


20 


WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 


wlio was arranging something in a cupboard lielhnd the 
counter. This was the pro[)rietor of the pnblic-lionse, a 
peasant from Kaluga, Ivan Fedotitch by name, who also 
rented half of the other houses, snb-letting the rooms to 
lodgers. In answei' to his call, a thin, sallow-faced, hook- 
nosed lad, of some eighteen years, came forwaixl hastily ; and 
the landlord said, ‘‘ Take this gentleman to the clerks: they 
have gone to the main body of the building over the well.” 

The lad put down his napkin, pulled a coat on over his 
white sliirt and trousers, picked ni) a large cap, then, with 
quick, short steps, he led the vvay by a back-door thi’ongii the 
buildings. At the entrance of a greasy, malodorous kitchen, 
we met an old woman, who was carefully carrying in a rag 
some putrid tripe. AVe descended into a court, built np all 
round with wooden buildings on stone foundations. The 
smell was most offensive, ami seemed to be concentrated in a 
privy, to which numbers of people were constantly resorting. 
This awful cesspool forced itself upon one’s notice by the 
pestilential atmos[)here around it. 

Tlie boy, taking care not to soil his white trousers, led me 
cautiously across frozen and unfrozen tilth, and approached 
one of the buildings. The i)eople crossing the yard and 
galleries all stopped to gaze at me. It was evident, that a 
cleanly-dressed man was an unusnal sight in the place. 

The boy asked a woman wdiom we met, w’hether she had 
seen where the census officials had entered, and three people 
at once answered his question : some said that they were 
over the well : others said that they had been there, but had 
now gone to Nikita Ivanovitch’s. 

An old man in the middle of tlie court, wdio had only a 
shirt on, said that they were at No. 30. The boy concluded 
that this information w^as the most probable, and led me to 
No. 30, into the basement, wdiere darkness and a bad smell, 
different from that w’hich filled the court, prevailed. 

AVe continued to descend along a dark passage. As w^e 
were traversing it, a door w as suddenly opened ; and out of 
it came a drunken old man in a shirt, evidently not of the 
peasant class. A shrieking washerwoman, with tucked-up 
sleeves and soapy arms, w'as pushing him out of the room. 
“Vanya” (my guide) shoved him aside, saying, “ It w^on’t 
do to kick up such a row here — and you an officer too ! ” 

AVdien w^e ariaved at No. 30, Vdnya pulled the door, which 
opened wdth the sound of a w^et slap ; and we felt a gush of 


WIIAT MUST WE DO THEN? 


21 


soap 3 " steam, and an odor of bad food and tobacco, and en- 
tered into com[)lete darkness. The windows were on the other 
side ; and we were in a crooked corridor, that went right and 
left, and with doors leading, at diiferent angles, into rooms 
sepai’ated from it by a partition of unevenly laid boards, 
roughly whitewashed. 

In a dark room to the left we could see a woman washing 
at a trough. Another old woman was looking out of a door 
at the right. Near an open door was a hairy, red-skinned 
peasant in bark shoes, sitting on a couch. II is hands rested 
upon his knees ; and he was swinging his feet, and looking 
sadly at his shoes. 

At the end of the passage was a small door leading into 
the room where the census officers were assembled. This 
was the room of the landlady of the whole of No. 30. She 
rented the apartment from Ivan Fedotitch, and sub-let the 
rooms to ordinaiy or night lodgers. 

In this tiny room a student sat under an image glittering 
with gilt paper, and, with the air of a magistrate, was put- 
ting questions to a man dressed in shirt and vest. This last 
was a friend of the landlady’s, who was answering the ques- 
tions in her stead. The landlady herself, — an old woman, 
— and two inquisitive lodgers, w'ere also present. 

When I entered, the room was quite filled up. I pushed 
through to the table, shook hands with the student, and he 
went on extracting his infonmition ; while I studied the 
inhabitants, and put questions to them for my own ends. 

It ap[)eared, however, I could find no one here upon whom 
to bestow my benevolence. The landlad}^ of the rooms, 
notwithstanding their wretchedness and filth (which espe- 
cially struck me in comparison with the mansion in which I 
lived), was well olf, even from the point of view of town 
poverty ; and compared with the country destitution, with 
which I was well acquainted, she lived luxuriously. She 
had a feather-bed, a quilted blanket, a samovar, a fur cloak, 
a cujiboard, with dishes, plates, etc. The landlady’s friend 
had the same well-to-do appearance, and boasted even a 
watch and chain. The lodgers were poor, but among them 
there was no one i-equiring immediate help. 

Three onl}^ api)lied for aid, — the woman washing linen, 
who said she had been abandoned by her husband ; an old 
widowed woman, without means of liveliliood ; and the 
peasant in the ragged shoes, who told me he had not had 


22 WHAT MUST WE BO THEN? 

an3’ thing to eat that day. But, upon gathering more precise 
information, it became evident that all these people were not 
in extreme want, and that, in order really to help, it would be 
necessary to become more intimately acquainted with them 

When I offered the washerwoman to place her children in a 
“home,” she became confused, thought over it some time, 
then thanked me much, but evidently did not desire it : she 
wished rather to be given some money. Her eldest daugh- 
ter helped her in the washing, and the second acted as nurse 
to the little boy. 

The old woman asked to be put into a refuge ; but, upon 
examining her corner, 1 saw that she was not in dire distress. 
She had a box containing her property : she had a teapot, 
two cups, and old bonbon-boxes with tea and sugar. She 
knitted stockings and gloves, and received a monthly allow- 
ance from a lady benefactress. 

The peasant was evidently more desirous of wetting his 
throat after his last day’s drunkenness than of food, and 
any thing giv^en him would have gone to the public-house. 
In these rooms, therefore, there was no one whom I could 
have rendered in any respect happier by helping them with 
money. 

There were only paupers there, — and paupers, it seemed 
to me, of a questionable kind. 

I put down the names of the old woman, the laundress, 
and the peasant, and settled in my mind that it would be ne- 
cessary to do something for them, but that first I should aid 
those other especially unfortunate ones whom I expected to 
come across in this house. I made up my mind that some 
system was necessary in distributing the aid which we had 
to give : first, we should find the most needy, and then come 
to such as these. 

But in the next lodging, and in the next again, I found only 
similar eases, which would have to be looked into more closely 
before l)eing helped. Of those whom pecuniary aid alone 
would have rendered happy, I found none. 

However ashamed I feel in confessing it, I began to 
experience a certain disappointment at not finding in these 
houses any thing resembL,_:g what I had expected. I thought 
to find very exceptional peo[)le ; but, when I had gone over 
all the lodgings, I became convinced that their inhabitants 
were in no way extremely peculiar, but much like those 
amongst whom I lived. 


WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 


23 


As with us, so also with them, there were some more or 
less good, and others more or less bad : there were some 
more or less happy, and others more or less unhappy. Those 
who were unhap[)y amongst them would have been equally 
wretched with us, their misery being within themselves, — a 
misery not to be mended b3’ any kind of bank-note. 


VI. 

The inhabitants of these houses belonged to the lowest 
population of the town, which in Moscow amounts to per- 
haps more tlian a hundred thousand. In this house, there 
were representative men of all kinds, — petty employers 
and joui'iieymen, shoemakers, brnshmakers, joiners, hackney 
coachmen, jobbers carrying on business on their own account, 
washerwomen, second-hand dealei’s, mone^-lenders, day-la- 
borers, and others without any definite occupation : here also 
lodged beggai s and women of the town. 

Many like those whom I had seen waiting in front of 
Liapin’s house lived here, but they were mixed up with the 
working-people ; and, besides, those whom I then saw were in 
a most wretched condition, when, having eaten and drunk 
all they had, they were tui-ned out of the public-house, and, 
cold and hungry, were waiting, as for heavenl}' manna, to be 
admitted into the free night-lodging-house, — day by day 
longing to be taken to prison, in order to be sent back to 
their respective homes. Here I saw the same men among 
a greater number of working-people, and at a time, when, 
by some means or other, they had got a few farthings to pay 
for their night’s lodging, and perhaps a ruble or two for 
food and drink. 

However strange it may sound, I had no such feelings here 
as I experienced in Liapin’s house ; but, on the contrary, dur- 
ing my first visiting-round, I and the students had a sensa- 
tion which was rather agreeable than otherwise. I might 
even say it was entirely agreeable. 

iNIy first impression was, that the majority of those lodging 
here were workingmen, and very kindly disposed. AVe found 
most of the lodgers at work, — the washerwomen at their tubs, 
the joiners by their benches, the bootmakers at their lasts. 
I’lie tiny rooms were full of people, and the work was going 
on cheerl'ully and with energy. There was a smell of per- 


24 


WHAT MUST WE BO THEN? 


spiration among the workmen, of leather at the bootmaker’s, 
of chips in the carpenter’s shop. We often heard songs, 
and saw bare, sinewy arms working briskly and skilfully. 

Every wdiere we were received kindly and clieerfully. 
Nearly everywhere oiir intrusion into the daily life of these 
people excited in them no desire to show us their impor- 
tance., or to rate us soundly, as happens when such visits 
are paid to the lodgings of well-to-do people. On the con- 
trary, all our questions were answered respectfully without 
any particular importance b^ing attached to tliem, — served, 
indeed, only as an excuse for them to be merry, and to joke 
as to how they w'ere to be enrolled on the list ; how such a 
one was as good as two, and how two others ought to be reck- 
oned as one. 

Many we lound at dinner or at tea ; and each time, in answer 
to our greeting, “Bread and salt,” or, “Tea and sugar,” 
they said, “ You are welcome ; ” and some even made room 
for us to sit down. Instead of the place being the I’esort of 
an ever-shifting population, such as we expected to tind here, 
it turned out that in this house were many rooms which had 
been tenanted by the same people for long periods. 

One carpenter, with his workmen, and a bootmaker, with 
his journeymen, had been living here for ten years. The boot- 
maker’s shop was very dirt}" and quite choked up, but all his 
men were working very cheerily. I tried to talk with one 
of the w"orkmen, wishing to sound him about the miseries 
of his lot, what he ow'ed to the master, and so forth ; but he 
did not understand me, and spoke of his master and of his 
life from a very favorable point of view. 

In one lodging, there lived an old man with his old wife. 
They dealt in apples. Their room was warm, clean, and 
filled with their belongings. The floor w"as covered with 
matting made of apple-sacks. There were chests, a cup- 
board, a samovar, and crockery. In the corner were many 
holy images, before which two lamps were burning : on the 
wall hung fur cloaks wrapped up in a sheet. The old w’oman 
with wrinkled face, kind and talkative, was apparently her- 
self delighted with her quiet, respectable life. 

IvAn Bedotitch, the owner of the inn and of the lodgings, 
came out, and walked with us. lie joked kindly with many 
of the lodgers, calling them all by their names, and giving 
us short sketches of their characters. They were as othei 
men, did not consider themselves unhappy, but believed 


WIIAT MUST WE BO THEN? 


25 


they were like every one else, fis in reality they were. We 
were prei)ared to see only dreadful things, and we met instead 
objects not only not repulsive, but estimable. And there 
were so many of them, compared with the ragged, ruined, 
unoccupied people we met now and then among them, that 
the latter did not in the least destroy the general impression. 
To the students it did not ap[)ear so remarkable as it did to 
me. They were merely performing an act, as they thought, 
useful to science, and, in passing, made casual observations : 
but I was a benefactor ; my object in going there was to help 
the unhappy, ruined, depraved men and women whom I had 
expected to meet in this house. And suddenly, instead of 
unhappy, ruined, depraved beings, I found the majority to 
be workingmen, quiet, satisfied, cheerful, kind, and very 
good. 

1 was still more strongly impressed when I found that in 
these lodgings the crying want I wished to relieve had 
already been relieved before 1 came. But by whom? By 
these same unhappy, depraved beings whom 1 was prepared 
to save ; and this help was given in a way not open to me. 

In one cellar lay a lonely old man suffering from typhus- 
fever. He had no connections in the world ; yet a woman, — 
a widow with a little girl, — quite a stranger to him, but liv- 
ing in the corner next to him, nursed him, and gave him tea, 
and bought him medicine with her own money. 

In another lodging lay a woman in puerperal fever. A 
woman of the town was nursing her child, and had prepared 
a sucking-bottle for him, and had not gone out to ply her sad 
trade for two days. 

An orphan girl was taken into the family of a tailor, who 
had three children of his own. Thus, there remained only 
such miserable unoccupied men as retired officials, clerks, 
men-servants out of situations, beggars, tipsy people, pros- 
titutes, children, whom it was not possible to help all at once 
by means of money, but whose cases it was necessary to 
consider carefully before assisting them. I had been seek- 
ing for men suffering from want of means, whom one might 
be able to help by sharing one’s superfluities with them. I 
had not found them. All those I had seen, it would have 
been very difficult to assist materially without devoting time 
and care to them. 


26 


WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 


VII. 

These unfortunate people ranged themselves in my mind 
under three heads : first, those who had lost former advan- 
tageous positions, and who were waiting to return to them 
(such men belonged to the lowest as w'ell as to the highest 
classes of society) ; secondly, women of the town, who are 
very numerous in these houses ; and thirdly, children. 

The majority of those I found, and noted down, were 
men who liad lost former places, and were desirous of 
returning to them. Such men were also numerous, being 
chiefly of tlie better class, and government officials. In 
almost all the lodgings we entered with the landloid, we 
were told, Here we need not trouble to fill up the resi- 
dential card ourselves : there is a man here who is able to 
do it, provided he is not tipsy.” 

And Ivan Fedotitch would call by name some such indi- 
vidual, who always belonged to this class of ruined people 
of a higher grade. When thus summoned, the man, if he 
were not tipsy, was always willing to undertake the task : 
he kept nodding his head with a sense of importance, knitted 
his brows, inserted now and then learned terms in his 
remarks, and carefully holding in his dirty, trembling hands 
the neat pink card, looked round at his fellow-lodgers with 
pride and contempt, as if he were now, bj' the superiority of 
his education, ti’iumphing over those who had been continu- 
ally humbling him. 

He w.ns evidently pleased with having intercourse with the 
world which used pink cards, with a world of which he him- 
self had once been a member. 

To my questions about his life, this kind of man not only 
replied willingly, but with enthusiasm, — beginning to tell a 
story, fixed in his mind like a prayer, about all kinds of 
misfoi’tunes which had happened to him, and chiefly about 
his former position, in which, considering his education, he 
ought to have remained. 

Many such people are scattered about in all the tenements 
of the Rzhanoff Houses. One lodging-house was tenanted 
exclusively by them, women and men. As we ai)proached 
them, Ivdn Fedotitch said, “ Now, here’s where the nobility 
live.” 

The lodging was full: almost all the lodgers — about forty 


WHAT MUST WE 1)0 THEN? 


27 


persons — were at home. In the whole house, there were no 
faces so ruined and degraded-looking as these, — if old, 
flabby ; if young, pale and haggard. 

I talked with several of them. Almost alwaj^s the same 
story was told, only in different degrees of development. 
One and nil had been once rich, or had still a rich father or 
brother or uncle ; or either his father or the unfortunate him- 
self had held a high office. Then came some misfortune 
caused by envious enemies or his own imprudent kindness, 
or some out-of-the-way occurrence ; and, having lost every 
thing, he was obliged to descend to these sti-auge and hate- 
ful surroundings, among lice and rags, in company with 
drunkards and loose characters, feeding upon bread and 
liver, and subsisting by beggary. 

All the thoughts, desires, and recollections of these men 
are turned toward the past. The present appears to them 
as something unnatural, hideous, and unworthy of attention. 
Tiie i)resent does not exist for them. They have only recol- 
lections of the past, and expectations of the future, which 
may be realized at an}’ moment, and for the attainment of 
which but very little is needed ; but, unfortunately, this little 
is out of their reach ; it cannot be got anywhere : and so they 
perish needlessly, one sooner, another later. 

One needs only to be dressed respectably, in order to call 
on a well-known person who is kindly disposed toward him ; 
another requires only to be di’essed, have his debts paid, and 
go to some town or other ; a third wants to take his effects out 
of pawn, and get a small sum to carry on a law-suit, which 
must be decided in his favor, and then all will be well again. 
All say that they have need of some external circumstance 
in order to regain that position which they think natural and 
hai)py for them. 

If 1 had not been blinded by my pride in being a bene- 
factor, 1 should have needed only to look a little closer 
into their faces, young and old, which were generally weak, 
sensual, but kind, in order to understand that their misfor- 
tunes could not be met by exterior means ; that they could 
be happy in no situation, while their present conception of 
life remuined the same ; that they were by no means peculiar 
people in peculiarly unhappy circumstances, but that they 
were like all other men, ourselves included. 

I remember well how my intercourse with men of this class 
was particularly trying to me. I now understand why it was 


28 


WHAT MUST WE BO THEN? 


so. In tliem I saw own self as in a mirror. If I had 
considered earefull}^ iny own life, and the lives of people of 
my own class, I should have seen, that, between ns and these 
unfortunate men, tliere existed no essential difference. 

Those who live around me in expensive suites of apart- 
ments, and houses of their own in the best streets of the city, 
eating something better, too, than liver or herring with their 
bread, are none the less unhappy. They also are discon- 
tented with their lot, regret the past, and desire a happier 
future, precisely as did the wretched tenants of the Rzhanoff 
Houses, lloth wish to work less, and to be worked for more, 
the difference between them being only in degrees of idleness. 

Unfortunately, 1 did not see this at first, nor did I under- 
stand that such people needed to be relieved, not by my 
charity, but of their own false views of the world ; and that, 
to change a man’s estimate of life, he must be given one 
more accurate than his own, which, unhappily, not possessing 
myself, I could not communicate to others. 

These men were unhappy, not because, to use an illustra- 
tion, they had not nourishing food, but because their stom- 
achs were spoiled ; and they required, not nourishment, but 
a tonic. I did not see, that, in order to help them, it was 
not necessary to give them food, but to teach them how to 
eat. Though I am anticipating, I must say, that, of all these 
people whose names I put down, 1 did not in reality help 
one, notwithstanding that all some of them had desired was 
done in order to relieve them. Of these 1 became acquainted 
with three men in particular. All three, after many failures 
and much assistance, are now just in the same position m 
which they were three years ago. 


VIII. 

The second class of unfortunates, whom I hoped after- 
wards to be able to help, were women ot the town. Such 
women were very numerous in the Kzhanoff Houses ; and they 
were of every kind, from young giils still bearing some like- 
ness to women, to old and fearful-looking creatures without a 
vestige of humanity. The hope of helping these women, 
whom I had not at first in view, was aroused by the following 
circumstances. 

When we had just finished half of our visiting-tour, we 


WllAT MUST WE DO THEN? 


29 


had ali'cad}" acquired a soinewliat mechanical method. On 
entering a new lodging, we at once asked for tlie landlord. 
One of us sat down, clearing a space to write ; and the other 
went from one to another, questioning each man and woman 
in the room, and reporting the information obtained to the 
one who was writing. 

On our entering one of the basement lodgings, the student 
went to look for the landlord ; and 1 began to question all 
who were in the {)lace. This place was thus divided : Jn the 
middle of the room, which was four yaids square, there 
stood a stove. From the stove radiated four partitrous, or 
screens, making a similar number of small compartments. 
]n the first of these, which had two doors in it oi)posite each 
other, and four pallets, were an old man and a woman. Next 
to it was a rather long but narrow room, in which was the 
landlord, a young, pale, good-looking man, dressed in a gray 
woollen coat. To the left of the first division, there was a 
third small room where a man was sleeping, seemingly tipsy, 
and a woman in a pink dressing-gown. The fourth com- 
partment was behind a partition, access to it being through 
the landlord’s room. 

The student entered the latter, while I remained in the 
first, questioning the old man and the woman. The former 
had been a t 3 'pesetter, but had now no means of livelihood 
whatever. 

'J'he woman was a cook’s wife. 

I went into the third compartment, and asked the woman 
in the dressing-gown about the man who was asleep. 

She answered that he was a visitor. 

1 asked her who she was. 

She replied that she was a peasant girl from the county of 
Moscow. 

“ What is your occupation? ” She laughed, and made no 
answer. 

“ What do you do for your living?” I repeated, thinking 
she had not undei-.stood the question. 

I sit in the inn,” she said. 

I did not understand her, and asked again, — 

What are your means of living? ” 

She gave me no answer, but continued to giggle. In the 
fouith I’oom, where we had not yet been, I heard the voices 
of women also giggling. 

The landlord came out of his room, and approached us. 


30 


WIIAT MUST WE BO THEN? 


He bad evidently heard my questions and tlie woman’s an- 
swers. He glanced sternly at her, and, turning to me, said, 
“ She is a pi'ostitute ; ” and it was evident that he was pleased 
that he knew this word, which is the one used in otlicial cir- 
cles, and at having pronounced it correctly. And having 
said this with a respectful smile of satisfaction towards me, 
he turned to the woman. As he did so, the expression of 
his face changed. Jn a peculiarly contemptuous manner, 
and with rapid utterance as one would speak to a dog, he 
said, without looking at her, ‘‘Don’t be a fool! instead of 
saying *you sit in the inn, speak plainly, and say you are a 
prostitute. — She does not even yet know her proper name,” 
he said, turning to me. 

This manner of speaking shocked me. 

It is not for us to shame her,” 1 said. “ If we were all 
living according to God’s commandment, there would be no 
such persons.” 

“Yes, yes: of course 3^011 are right,” said the landlord, 
with a forced smile. 

“Therefore we must i)ity them, and not reproach them as 
if it were their own fault entirely.” 

I do not remember exactly what I said. I remember only 
that 1 was disgusted by the disdainful tone of this young 
landlord, in a lodging tilled with females whom he termed 
prostitutes ; and 1 pitied the woman, and expressed both 
feelings. 

No sooner had I said this, than I heard from the small 
comi)artment where the giggling had been, the noise of creak- 
ing bed-boards; and over the partition, which did not reach 
to the ceiling, appeared the dishevelled curly head of a 
female with small swollen eyes, and a shining red face ; 
a second, and then a third, head followed. They were evi- 
dently standing on their beds ; and all three were sti-etching 
their necks and holding their breath, and looking silently at 
me with strained attention. 

A painful silence followed. 

The student, who had been smiling before this happened, 
now became grave : the landlord became confused, and cast 
down his eyes ; and the women continued to look at me in 
expectation. 

I felt more disconcerted than all the rest. I had certainly 
not expected that a casual word would ])roduce such an 
effect. It was like the held of battle covered with dead 


WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 


31 


bones seen by the prophet Ezekiel, on whieh, trembling from 
contact with the S])irit, the dead hones began to move. I 
had casually uttered a word of love and pity, which pro- 
duced upon all such an effect that it seemed as if they had 
been only waiting for it, to cease to be corpses, and to 
become alive again. 

They continued to look at me, as if wondering what would 
come next, as if waiting for me to say those words and do 
those acts by which these dry bones would begin to come 
together, — be covered with flesh and receive life. 

But I felt, alas ! that I had no such words or deeds to 
give, or to continue as I had begun. In the depth of my 
soul I felt that I had told a lie, that I myself was like them, 
that I had nothing more to say ; and I began to write down 
on the domiciliary card the names and the occupations of all 
the lodgers there. 

This occurrence led me into a new kind of error. I began 
to think that these unhappy ones also could be helped. This, 
in my self-deception it seemed to me, would be very easily 
done. 1 said to myself, Now we shall put down the names 
of these women too; and afterwards, when we (though it 
never occurred to me to ask who were the zee) have written 
every thing down, we can occupy ourselves with their affairs.” 
1 imagined that zee, the very persons who, during many gen- 
erations, have been leading such women into such a condi- 
tion, and still continue to do so, could one tine morning 
wake, and remedy it all. And yet, if I could have recol- 
lected my conversation with the lost woman who was nursing 
the baby for the sick mother, I should have understood all 
the folly of such an idea. 

Wheli we first saw this woman nursiiig the child, we 
thought that it was hers ; but upon our asking her what she 
was, she answered us plainly that she was unmarried. She 
did not say '^prostitute.” It was left for the rude pro- 
prietor of the lodgings to make use of that terrible word. 
The supposition that she had a child gave me the idea of 
helping her out of her present ])osition. 

" Is this child yours? ” I asked. 

“ No : it is that woman’s there.” 

“ Why do you nurse him? ” 

“ She asked me to : she is dying.” 

Though my surmise turned out to be wrong, T continued 
to speak with her in the same spirit. 1 began to question 


32 


WIJAT MUST WE DO THEN 7 


her as to who she was, and how she came to be in such a 
position. Slie told me her story willingly, and very plainly. 
She belonged to the lower ranks of Moscow society, the 
daughter of a factoiy workman. She was left an orphan, 
and adopted by her aunt, from whose house she began to 
Ausit the inns. The aunt was nor; dead. 

• When I asked her whether she wished to change her course 
of life, my question did not even interest hei’. How can a 
supposition about something quite impossible awaken an 
interest in any one? She smiled, and said, • - 

‘‘ Who would take me with a yellow ticket? ” 

“ But,” said 1, “if it were possible to find you a situation 
as a cook or something else?” I said this because she 
looked like a strong woman, with a kind, dull, round face, 
not unlike many cooks 1 had seen. 

Prudently my words did not please her. She repeated, 
“ Cook ! but I do not understand how to bake bread.” 

She spoke jestingh' ; but, by the expression of her face, I 
saw that she was unwilling ; that she even considered the 
position and rank of a cook beneath her. 

This woman, who, in the most simple manner, like the 
widow in the gospel, had sacrificed all that she had for a 
sick person, at the same time, like other women of the same 
profession, considered the position of a workman or working- 
woman low and despicable. She had been educated in oi’der 
to live without work. — a life which all her friends considered 
quite natural. This was her misfortune. And by this she 
came into her present position, and is kept in it. This 
brought her to the inns. Who of us men and women will 
cure her of this false view of life? Are there among us men 
convinced that a laborious life is more respectable than an 
idle one, and who are living according to this conviction, 
and who make this the test of their esteem and respect? 

Jf I had thought about it, 1 should have understood that 
neither I. nor anybody else I know, was able to cure a person 
of this disease. 

I should have understood that those wondering find awak- 
ened faces that looked over the partition expressed merely 
astonishment at the pity shown to them, but no wish to 
reform their lives. They did not see the immoi’ality of them. 
They knew that they were despised and condemned, but the 
reason for it they could not understand. They had lived in 
this manner fiom their infancy among women like them- 


WHAT MUST WE DO THEN f 


33 


selves, who, they know very well, have always existed, do 
exist, and are so necessary to society, that there are oflicials 
deputed by government to see that they conform to regula- 
tions. 

Besides, they know that they have power over men, and 
subdue them, and often iiitiuence them more than any other 
women. They see that their position in society, notwith- 
standing the fact that tln-y are always blamed, is recognized 
b}’ men as well as by women and by the govei-nment ; and 
therefore they cannot even understand of what they have to 
repent, and wherein they should reform. 

Din ing one of our visiting-tours the student told me, that, 
in one of the lodgings, there was a woman about to sell her 
daughter, tliirteen years old. Wishing to save this little girl, 
1 went on [)ur[)ose to their lodging. 

JMother and daughter were living in great poverty. The 
mother, a small, dark-complexioned prostitute of forty years 
of age, was not simply ugly, but disagreeabl}' ugly. The 
daughter also was bad-looking. To all my indirect ques- 
tions al)out their mode of life, the mother replied curtly, 
with a look of suspicion and animosity, apparently feeling 
that I was an enemy with bad intentions : the daughter said 
nothing without looking first at the mother, in whom she 
evidently had entire confidence. 

They did not awaken pity in my heart, but rather disgust. 
But I decided that it was necessary to save the daughter, to 
awaken an interest in ladies who might sympathize with the 
miserable condition of these women, and miglit so be brought 
here. 

But if I had thought about the antecedents of the mother, 
how she had given birth to her daughter, how she had fed 
and educated her, certainh' without any outside help, and 
with great sacrilices to herself ; if 1 had thought of the view 
of life which had formed itself in her mind, — I should have 
understood, that, in the mother’s conduct, there was nothing 
at all bad or immoral, seeing she had been doing for her 
daughter all she could; i.e., what she considered best for 
herself. 

It was possible to take this girl away from her mother by 
force ; but to convince her that she was doing wrong in sell- 
ing her daughter, was not possible. It would first be neces- 
sary to save this woman ^ — this mother — from a condition 
of life approved by every one, and according to which a 


34 


WIJAT MUST WE BO THEN? 


woman may live without marrying and without working, 
serving exclusively as a gratilication to the passions. If I 
had thought about this, I should have understood that the 
majority of those ladies whom 1 wished to send here for the 
saving of this girl were not only themselves avoiding family 
duties, and leading idle and sensual lives,^ but were con- 
sciously educating their daughters for this very same mode 
of existence. One mother leads her daughter to the inn, 
and another to court and to balls. But the views of the 
world held by l)()th mothers are the same; viz., that a 
woman must gratify the lusts of men, and for that she must 
be fed, dressed, and taken care of. 

How, then, are our ladies to reform this woman and her 
daughter? 


IX. 

Still more strange were my dealings with the children. 
In my role as a benefactor, I paid attention to the children, 
too, wishing to save innocent beings from going to ruin in 
this den ; and I wrote down their names in order to attend to 
them myself aftenvards. 

Among these children, my attention was particularh* drawn 
to Serozha, a boy twelve years old. 1 sincerel}' j)itied this 
clever, intelligent lad, who had been living with a bootmaker, 
and who was left without any place of refuge when his mas- 
ter was put into prison. I wished to do something for him. 

I will now give the result of my benevolence in his case, 
because this bo3'’s story will show ni}^ false position as a 
benefactor better than any thing else. 

I took the boy into my house, and lodged him in the 
kitchen. Could I possibly bring a lousy boy out of a deu of 
depravity to my children? I considered that 1 had been very 
kind in having put him where he was, amongst my servants. 
I thought myself a great benefactor for having given him 
some of my old clothes and fed him ; though it was properly 
my cook who did it, not 1. The bo}’ remained in 1113^ house 
about a week. 

During this week I saw him twice, and, ])assing bv him, 
spoke some words to him, and, when out walking, called on 
a bootmaker whom I knew, and proposed the bo3^ as an 
ai)i)rentice. A peasant who was on a visit at 1113" house 
invited him to go to his ^ village, and work in a faniil3L 


WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 


35 


The boy refused to accept it, and disappeared within a 
week. 

I went to Rzhanoff’s liouse to inquire after him. lie had 
returned there ; but when I called, he was not at home. He 
had already been two days to the zoological gardens, where 
he hired himself for thirty kopeks a day to ai)pear in a pro- 
cession of savages in costume, leading an elephant. There 
was some public show on at the lime. 

I went to see him again, but he evidently avoided me. 
Had I reflected upon the life of this boy, and on my own, I 
should have understood that the boy had been spoiled by the 
fact of his having tasted the sweets of a merry and idle life, 
and that he had lost the habit of woiking. And I. in ortler 
to confer a benefit on liim and reform him, took him into my 
own house; and wliat did he see there? He saw my chil- 
dren, some older than he, some y^ounger, and some of the 
same age, who not only never did any thing for themselves, 
but gave as much work to others as they could. 'I'hey 
dirtied and spoiled every thing about them, surfeited them- 
selves with all sorts of dainties, broke the china, upset and 
tlirew to tlie dogs food which would have been a treat to 
him. If I took him out of a den and biought him to a re- 
spectal)le place, he could not but assimilate those views of 
life which existed there; and, according to these views, he 
understood, that, in a respectable i)osition, one must live 
without working, eat and drink well, and lead a merry life. 

'brue, he did not know that my children had much labor 
in learning the exceptions in Latin and Greek grammars ; 
and he would not have been able to understand the object of 
such work. But one cannot help seeing, that, had he even 
understood it, the influence upon him of the exam[)le of my 
children would have been still stronger, lie would have then 
understood that they wei'e being educated in such a way, that, 
not working now, they might hereafter also work as little as 
})ossible, and enjoy the good things of life by virtue of their 
dii)lomas. 

But what he did understand of it, made him go, not to the 
peasant to take care of cattle and feed on })otatoes and 
kvas, but to the zoological gardens in the costume of a 
savage to lead an ele[)hant for thirty kopeks a day. 1 ought 
to have understood how foolish it was of one who was educat- 
ing his own children in complete idleness and luxury, to tiy 
to reform other men and their childi'cn, and save them from 


OO 


WHAT MUST WE BO THEN? 


goin^ to ruin and idleness in what I called the dens in 
ivzhanoff's house ; where, however, three-fourths of the men 
were working for themselves and for others. But then I 
undersh^oil nothing of all this. 

In Kzhanolf’s house, there were a great main’ children in 
the most miserable condition. There were children of pros- 
titutes, orphans, and children carried about the streets by 
beggars. They were all very wretched. But my experience 
with Sei-ozha showed me, that, so long as I continued living 
the life which I did, I was not able to help them. 

While the latter was living with ns, I remember that I took 
pains to 'hide from him our way of life, particularly that of 
my children. 1 felt that all my endeavors to lead him to a 
good and laborious life were frustrated by my exam[)le, and 
that of my children. It is very ea.sy to take away a child 
from a [irostitute or a beggar. It is very easy, when one 
has money, to wash him, dress him in new’ clothes, feed him 
well, and even teach him different accomplishments; but to 
teach him how to earn his living, is, for ns who have not been 
earning ours, but have lieen doing just the contrary, not only 
difficult, but quite impossible, because by our example, and 
by the very imiirovemeuts of his mode of life effected by us, 
without any cost on our part, w'e teach him the very oi)posite. 

You may take a puppy, pet him, feed him, teach him to 
carry things after you, and be jileased wdth looking at him : 
l)ut it is not enough to feed a man, dress him, and teach him 
Greek; you must teach him how’ to live; i.e., how to take 
less from others, and give them more in return : and yet we 
cannot help teaching him the very opposite, through our own 
mode of life, whether we take him into our own house, or 
put him into a home to bring up. 


X. 

I HAVE never since experienced such a feeling of compas- 
sion towairds men, and of aversion tow'ards myself, as 1 felt 
in Liaiiin’s house. I was now’ filled with the desire to carry 
out the scheme which 1 had already begun, and to do good to 
those men whom I met with. 

And, strange to say, though it might seem that to do good 
and to give money to those in want of it, w’as a good deed, 
and ought to dispose men to universal love, it turned out 


WUAT MUST WE DO THEN f 


37 


quite the reverse ; calling up in me bitter feeling, and a dis- 
position to censure them. Even during our first visiting-tour a 
scene occurred similar to that in Liapin’s house ; but it failed 
to produce again the same effect, and created a very different 
imju’ession. 

It began with my finding in one of the lodgings a miserable 
person who required immediate help, — a woman who had not 
eaten food for two days. 

It happened thus : In one very large and almost empty 
night-lodging, I asked an old woman whether there were any 
poor people who had nothing to eat. She hesitated a moment, 
and then named two ; then suddenly, as if recollecting her- 
self, she said, “Yes, there lies one of them,” pointing to 
a pallet. “ This one,” she added, “ indeed, has nothing to 
eat.” 

“You don’t say so ! AYho is she?” 

“ She has been a lost woman ; but as nobody takes her 
now, she can’t earn any thing. The landlady has had pity 
on her, but now she wants to turn her out. — Agafia ! I sa}', 
Agafia ! ” cried the old woman. 

\Ye went a little nearer, and saw something rise from the 
pallet. This was a gra 3 ^-haired, dishevelled woman, thin as 
a skeleton, in a dirt}^, torn chemise, and with peculiarly glit- 
tering, immovable eyes. She looked fixedly beyond us, tried 
to snatch up her jacket behind her in order to cover her 
bony chest, and growled out like a dog, “ What? what? ” 

I asked her how she managed to live. For some time she 
was unable to see the drift of my words, and said, “1 do 
not know myself : they are going to turn me. out.” 

I asked again ; and oh, how ashamed of myself I feel ! 
my hand can scarcely write it ! I asked her whether it was 
true that she was starving. She replied in the same feverish, 
excited manner, “I had nothing to eat yesterday; I have 
had nothing to eat to-da}".” 

The miserable aspect of this woman impressed me deeply, 
but quite different!}’, from what those had in Liapin’s house : 
there, out of pity for them, I felt embarrassed and ashamed 
of myself ; but here, I rejoiced that I had, at last, found what 
I had been looking for, — a hungry being. 

1 gave her a ruble, and I remember how glad I felt that 
the others had seen it. 

The old woman forthwith asked me also for money. It 
was so pleasant to me to give, that I handed her some also, 


38 


WUAT MUST WE DO THEN? 


without thinking wiiether it was necessary or not. She 
accompanied me to the door, and those who were in the cor- 
ridor heard how she thanked me. Probably my questions 
about the poor provoked expectations, for some of the 
inmates began to follow us wherever we went. 

Among those that begged, there were evidently drunkards, 
who gave me a most disagreeable impression ; but, having 
once given to the old woman, I thought I had no right to 
refuse them, and I began to give awa}’ more. This only 
increased the . number of applicants, and there was a stir 
throughout the whole lodging-house. 

On the stairs and in the galleries, people appeared dogging 
my steps. When I came out of the yard, a boy ran quickly 
down the stairs, pushing through the people. He did not 
notice me, and said hurriedly, — 

“ He gave a ruble to Agatia ! ” 

Having reached the ground, he, too, joined the crowd that 
was following me. I came out into the street. All sorts of 
people crowded round me, begging for money. Having given 
away all I had in coppers, I entered a shop and asked the 
proprietor to give me change for ten rubles. 

And here a scene similar to that which took place in 
Liapin’s house occurred. A dreadful confusion ensued. 
Old women, seedy gentlefolk, peasants, children, all crowded 
about the shop, stretching out their hands ; I gave, and 
asked some of them about their position and means, and 
entered all in my note-book. The shopkeeper, having turned 
up the fur collar of his great-coat, was sitting like a statue, 
glancing now and then at the crowd, and again staring 
beyond it. He apparently felt like every one else, that all 
this was very foolish, but he dared not say so. 

In Liapin’s house the misery and humiliation of the people 
had overwhelmed me ; and 1 felt myself to blame for it, and 
also felt the desire and the possibility of becoming a better man. 
But though the scene here was similar, it produced a quite 
different effect. In the first place, I felt angry wdth many 
of those who assailed me, and then I felt anxious as to what 
the shopmen and the dvorniks might think of me. I 
returned home that day with a weight on my mind. I knew 
that what I had done was foolish and inconsistent ; but, as 
usual, when my conscience was troubled, I talked the more 
about my projected plan, as if I had no doubt whatever as 
to its success. 


WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 


39 


The next clay I went alone to those whom I had noted 
down, and who seemed the most miserable, thinking they 
could be more easily helped than others. 

As 1 have already menlioned, 1 was not really able to help 
any of these people. It turned out that to do so was more 
dithcult than I had imagined : either I did not understand 
how«to do it, or else it was indeed impossible. 

1 went sevei-al times before the last visiting-tour to Rzhan- 
off’s house, and each time the same thing occurred : I was 
assailed by a ci-owd of men and women, in the midst of whom 
I uttei ly lost my presence of mind. 

1 felt the impossibility of doing any thing because there 
were so many of them, and I was angry with them because 
they were so many ; besides, each of them, taken separately, 
did not awaken any sympathy in me. I felt that each one of 
them lied, or at least prevaricated, and regarded me only as 
a purse out of which money could be abstracted. It often 
seemed to me that the very money which was extorted from 
me did not improve their position, but only made it worse. 

The oftener I went to these houses, the closer the inter- 
course which I had with the inmates, the more apparent 
became the impossibility of doing any thing ; but, notwith- 
standing this, I did not give up my plan until after the last 
night tour with the census-takers. 

I feel more ashamed of this visit than of any other. 
Formerly I had gone alone, but now twenty of us went 
together. At seven o’clock all those who wished to take 
part in this last tour began to assemble in my house. They 
were almost all strangers to me. Some students, an officer, 
and two of my fashionable acquaintances, who, after having 
repeated the usual phrase, “ C’est tres interessant! ” asked 
me to [)ut them into the number of the census-takers. 

These fashionable friends of mine had dressed themselves 
in shooting-jackets and high travelling boots, which they 
thought more suited to the visit than their ordinary attire. 
They carried with them peculiar pocket-books and extraordi- 
nary-looking pencils. They were in that agitated state of 
mind which one experiences just before going to a hunt, or to 
a duel, or into a battle. The falseness and foolis|iness of our 
enterprise was now more apparant to me when looking at 
them ; but were we not all in the same ridiculous position? 

Before starting we had a conference, somewhat like a 
council of war, as to what we should begin with, how to 


40 


WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 


divide ourselves, and so on. This conference was just like 
all other official councils, meetings, and committees : each 
spoke, not'because he had any thing to say, or to ask, but 
because every one tried to find something to say in order not 
to be behind the rest. But during this conversation no one 
alluded to the acts of benevolence to which I had so many 
times referred ; and however much ashamed I felt, I ff)und 
it was needful to remind them that we must carry out our 
charitable intentions by writing down, during the visiting- 
tour, the names of all whom we should find in a destitute 
condition. 

I had always felt ashamed to speak about these matters ; 
but here, in the midst of our hurried preparations for the 
expedition, I could scarceh' utter a word about them. All 
listened to me and seemed touched, all agreed with me 
in words ; but it was evident that each of them knew that 
it was folly, and that it would lead to nothing, so they began 
at once to talk about other subjects, and continued doing so 
until it was time for us to start. 

We came to the dark tavern, aroused the waiters, and 
began to sort our papers. When we were told that the poo- 
l)le, having heard about this visiting-tour, had begun to leave 
their lodgings, we asked the landlord to shut the gate, and 
we ourselves went to the yard to persuade those to remain 
who wanted to escape, assuring them that no one would ask 
to see their tickets. 

I remember the strange and painful impression produced 
upon me by these frightened night-lodgers. Ragged and half- 
dressed, they all appeared tall to me by the light of the lan- 
tern in the dark court-yard. Frightened and horrible in their 
terror, they stood in a small knot round the pestilential out- 
house, listening to our persuasions, but not believing us ; and 
evidently, like hunted animals, were pre[)ared to do any thing 
to escape from us. 

Gentlemen of all kinds, town and country policemen, pub- 
lic prosecutors and judges, had, all their lives long, been 
hunting them in towns and villages, on the roads and in the 
streets, in the taverns and in the lodging-houses, and sud- 
denly these/gentlemen had come at night and sliut the gate, 
only, forsooth, in order to count them ; they found it as diffi- 
cult to believe this as it would be for hares to believe that 
the dogs are come out not to catch but to count them. 

But the gates were shut, and the frightened night-ledgers 


WnAT MUST WE BO THEN? 


41 


returned to their respective places ; and we, having separated 
into groups, began our visit. With me were my fashionable 
acquaintances and two students. Vanya, with a lantern, 
went before us in a great-coat and white trousers, and we fol- 
lowed. We entered lodgings well known to me. Tlie place 
was familiar, some of the persons also ; but the majority were 
new to me, and the spectacle was also a new and dreadful one, 
— still more dreadful than that which I had seen at Liapin’s 
house. All the lodgings were filled, all the pallets occupied, 
and not only b}' one, but often by two persons. The sight 
was dreadful, because of the closeness with which these 
people were huddled together, and because of the indis- 
criminate commingling of men and women. Such of the 
latter as were not dead-drunk were sleei)ing with men. Many 
women with cliildren slept ^ith strange men on narrow beds. 

The spectacle was dreadful, owing to the misery, dirt, rag- 
gedness, and terror of these people ; and cliiefly so because 
there were so many of them. One lodging, then another, 
then a third, a tenth, a twentieth, and so on, without end. 
And everywhere the same fearful stench, the same suffo- 
cating exhalation, the same confusion of sexes, men and 
women, drunk, or in a state of insensibility ; the same terror, 
submissiveness, and guilt stamped on all faces, so that I felt 
deeply ashamed and grieved, as I had before at Liapin’s. 
At last I understood that what I was about to do was dis- 
gusting, foolish, and therefore imi)OSsible ; so I left off writ- 
ing down their names and questioning them, knowing now 
that nothing would come of it. 

At Liapin’s I had been like a man who sees a horrible 
wound on the body of another. He feels sorry for the man, 
ashamed of not having relieved him before, yet he can still 
hope to help the sufferer ; but now I was like a doctor who 
comes with his own medicines to the patient, uncovers his 
wound only to mangle it, and to confess to himself that 
all he has done has been in vain, and that his remedy is inef- 
fectual. 


XI. 

This visit gave the last blow to my self-deception. It be- 
came very evident to me that my aim was not only foolish, 
but also productive of evil. And 3 ^et, though 1 knew this, it 
seemed to be my dutj' to continue my project a little longer: 


42 


WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 


first, because by the article which I had written, and my 
visits, I had raised the expectations of the poor ; secondly, 
because what I had said and written had awakened the 
sympathy of some benefactors, many of whom had promised 
to assist me personally and with money. And I was expect- 
ing to be applied to by both, and hoped to satisfy them as 
well as I was able. 

As regards the applications made to me by those who were 
in need, the following details may be given : I received more 
than a hundred letters, which came exclusively from the 
“ rich poor,” if I may so express myself. Some of them I 
visited, and some I left unanswered. In no instance did 
I succeed in doing any good. All the applications made to 
me were from persons who were once in a privileged position 
(I call such persons privileged who receive more from others 
than they give in return), had lost that position, and w^eie 
desirous of regaining it. One wanted two hundred rubles 
in order to keep his business from going to ruin, and to 
enable him to finish the education of his children ; another 
wanted to have a photographic establishment ; a third wanted 
money to pa\" his debts, and take his best clothes out of 
pawn ; a fourth was in need of a piano, in order to perfect 
himself, and earn money to support his family- by giving les- 
sons. The majority did not name any particular sum of 
mone}^ : the\’ simply asked for help ; but when I began to in- 
vestigate what was necessary, it turned out that their wants 
increased in proportion to the help offered, and nothing 
satisfactory resulted. I repeat again, the fault may have 
been in my want of understanding ; but in any case 1 helped 
no one, uotwdthstandiug the fact that 1 made every elfort to 
do so. 

As for the philanthropists who were to co-operate wdth me, 
something very strange and quite unexpected occurred : of 
all who promised to assist with money, and even stated the 
amount they w ould give, not one contributed any thing for 
distribution among the poor. 

The promises of pecuniary assistance amounted to about 
three thousand rubles ; but of all these people, not one recol- 
lected his agreement, or gave me a single kopek. The 
students alone gave tlie mone}' which they received as pay- 
ment for visiting, about twelve rubles ; so that my scheme, 
which was to have collected tens of thousands of rubles from 
the rich, and to have saved hundreds and thousands of 


WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 


43 


people from misery and vice, ended in my distributing at 
random some few rubles among those who came begging ; 
and there remained on my hands the twelve rubles offered by 
the students, with twenty-five more sent me by the town- 
council for my labor as manager, which I positively did not 
know what. to do with. 

And so ended the affair. 

Then, before leaving Moscow for the country, on the Sun- 
day before the carnival I went to the Rzhanoft' house in the 
morning in order to distribute the thirty-seven rubles among 
the poor. I visited all whom I knew in the lodgings, but 
found only one invalid, to whom I gave something, — 1 think, 
five rubles. There was nobody else to give to. Of course, 
many began to beg ; but, as I did not know them, I made 
up my mind to take the advice of Ivan Fedotitch, the tavern- 
keeper, respecting the distribution of the remaining thirty- 
two rubles. 

It was the first day of the carnival. Eveiybody was 
smartl}’ dressed, all had had food, and many were drunk. In 
the 3 \ard near the corner of the house stood an old-clothes 
man, dressed in a ragged peasant’s coat and bark shoes, 
lie was still hale and hearty. Sorting his purchases, he was 
putting them into different heaps, — leather, iron, and other 
things, — and was singing a merry song at the top of his 
voice. 

1 began to talk with him. He was seventy years of age; 
had no relatives ; earned his living b}" dealing in old clothes, 
and not only did not complain, but said he had enough to 
eat, di'ink, and to spare. I asked him who in the place were 
particular!}^ in want. He became cross, and said plainly that 
there was no one in want but drunkards and idlers ; but on 
learning my object in asking, he begged of me five kopeks 
for drink, and ran to the tavern for it. 

I also went to the tavern to see Ivan Fedotitch. in order to 
ask him to distribute the money for me. It was full ; gayly- 
dressed tipsy prostitutes were walking to and fro ; all the 
tables were occui)ied ; many people were already drunk ; and 
in the small room some one was playing a harmonium, and 
two people were dancing. Ivan Fedotitch, out of respect for 
me, ordered them to leave off, and sat down next me at a 
vacant table. 1 asked him, as he knew his lodgers well, to 
point out those most in want, as I was intrusted with a little 
money for distribution, and wished him to direct me. The 


44 


WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 


kind-hearted man (he died a year after) , although he had to 
wait on his customers, gave me his attention for a time in 
order to oblige me. He began to think over it, and was 
evidently puzzled. One old waiter had overheard us, and 
took his part in the conference. 

The}' began to go over his lodgers, some of whom were 
known to me, but they could not agree. “ Paramouovna,” 
suggested the waiter. 

‘'Well, yes, she does go hungry sometimes; but she 
drinks.” 

“ What difference does that make? ” 

“Well, Spiridon Ivanovitch, he has children; that’s the 
man for you. ” 

But Ivan Fedotitch had doubts about Spiridon too. 

“ Akulina, but she has a pension. Ah, but there is the 
blind man ! ” 

To him I myself objected : I had just seen him. This was 
an old man of eighty years of age, without any relatives. 
One could scarcely imagine any condition to be worse ; and 
yet I had just seen him lying drunk on a feather bed, curs- 
ing at his comparatively young mistress in the most filthy 
language. 

They then named a one-armed boy and his mother. I saw 
that Ivan Fedotitch was in great difficulty, ov/ing to his 
conscientiousness, for he knew that every thing given away 
by me would be spent at his tavern. But as I had to get 
rid of my thirty-two rubles, I insisted, and we managed 
somehow or other to distribute the money. Those who re- 
ceived it were mostly well-dressed, and we had not far to go 
to find them : they were all in the tavern. 

Thus ended all my benevolent enterprises ; and I left for 
the country, vexed with every one, as it always happens 
when one does something foolish and harmful. Nothing 
came of it all, except the train of thoughts and feelings 
which it called forth in me, which not only did not cease, but 
doubly agitated my mind. 


XIT. 

WiiAT did it all mean? 

I had lived in the country, and had entered into relations 
with the country-poor. It is not out of false modesty, but lu 
order to state the truth, wliich is necessary in order to under- 
stand the run of all my thoughts and feelings, that I must 


WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 


45 


sa}' that in the country I had done perhaps but little for the 
lM)or. the help which had been required of me was so small ; 
but even the little 1 had done liad been useful, and had 
formed round me an atmosphere of love and sympathy with 
my fellow-creatures, in the midst of whom it might yet be 
possible for me to quiet the gnawing of my conscience as to 
the unlawfulness of my life of luxury. 

On going to the city 1 had hoped for the same happy rela- 
tions with the poor, but there things were upon quite another 
footing. In the city, poverty was at once less truthful, more 
exacting, and more bitter, than in the country. It was chiefly 
because there was so much more of it accumulated together, 
that it produced upon me a most harrowing impression. 
What I experienced at Liapin’s house made my own luxuri- 
ous life seem monstrously evil. I could not doubt the sin- 
cerity and the strength of this conviction ; yet, notwithstand- 
ing this, I was quite incapable of carrying out that revolution 
which demanded an entire change in my mode of life : I was 
frightened at the prospect, and so I resorted to compromises. 
I accepted what I was told by every one, and what has been 
said by everybody since the world began, — that riches and 
luxury contain in themselves no evil, that they are given by 
God, and that it is possible to help those in need whilst con- 
tinuing to live luxuriously. I believed this, and wanted to 
do so. And I wrote an article in which I called upon all 
rich people to help. These all admitted themselves morally 
obliged to agree with me, but evidently did not wish, or could 
not, either do or give any thing for the poor. 

I then began visiting, and discovered what I had in no 
way expected to see. On the one hand, I saw in these dens 
(as I had at first called them) men whom it was impossible 
for me to help, because they were working-men, accustomed to 
labor and privation, and therefore having a much firmer hold 
on life than I had. On the other hand, I saw miserable men 
whom I could not aid because they were just such as I was 
myself. The majority of the poor whom I saw were wretched, 
merely because they had lost the capacity, desire, and habit 
of earning their bread ; in other words, their miseiy consisted 
in the fact that they were just like myself. Whereas, of poor 
people, to whom it was possible to give immediate assistance, 
— those suffering from illness, cold, and hunger, — I found 
none, except the starving Agafia ; and I became persuaded 
that, being so far removed from the life of those whom I 


46 


WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 


wished to succor, it was almost impossible to find such need 
as I sought, because all real need was attended to by those 
amongst whom these unhapi)y creatures lived : and my prin- 
cipal conviction now was, that, with money, I could never 
reform that life of misery which these people led. 

I was persuaded of this : yet a feeling of shame to leave off 
all I had begun, and self-deception as to my own virtues, 
made me continue my })lan for some time longer, till it died 
a natural death ; thus, only with great difficulty and the help 
of Ivan Fedotitch, I managed to distribute in the tavern 
at Rzhanoff’s house the thirty-seven rubles which I con- 
sidered were not my own. 

Of course I might have continued this style of thing, and 
have transformed it into a kind of charity ; and, by importun- 
ing those who promised to give me money, I might have 
obtained and distributed more, thus comforting myself with 
the idea of my own excellence : but I became convinced on 
the one hand, that we rich people do not wish, and are also 
unable, to distribute to the poor a portion of our superfiuities 
(we have so many wants ourselves), and that money should 
not be given to any one if we really wished to do good, and 
not merely to distribute it at random as I had done in the 
Rzhanoff tavern ; so I dropped the affair entirely, and quitted 
Moscow, ill despair, for my own village. 

I intended oil returning home to write a pamphlet on my 
experience, and to state why my project had not succeeded. 
I wanted to justify myself from the imputations which re- 
sulted from my article on the census ; I wanted also to 
denounce society and its heartless indifference ; and I desired 
to point out the causes of this town misery, and the necessity 
for endeavoring to remedy it, as well as those means which 
I thought were requisite for this purpose. I began even then 
to write, and fancied I had many very important facts to 
communicate. But in vain did I rack my brain : I could not 
manage it, notwithstanding the superabundance of material 
at my command, because of the irritation under which I 
wrote, and because I had not yet learned b}' experience what 
was necessary to grasp the question rightly ; still more be- 
cause I had not become fully conscious of the cause of it all, 
— a very simple cause, which was deep-rooted in myself ; so 
the pamphlet was not finished at the commencement of the 
present year (1884-1(885). In the matter of moral law we 
witness a strange phenomenon to wdiich men pay too little 


WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 


47 


attention. If I speak to an unlearned man about geoloij}', 
astronomy, histoi^, natural philosophy, or mathematics, he 
receives the information as quite new to him, and never says 
to me, “ There is nothing new in what you tell me ; every one 
knows it, and 1 have known it for a long time.” 

But tell a man one of the highest moral truths in the 
simplest manner, in such a way as it has never been befoie 
formulated, and every ordinary man, particularly one who 
does not take any interest in moral questions, and, above all, 
one who dislikes them, is sure to say, ‘‘ Who does not know 
that? It has been always known and expressed.” And he 
really believes this. Only those who can appreciate moral 
truths know how to value their elucidation and simplitication 
by a long and laborious process, or can prize the transition 
from a tirst vaguely understood proposition or desire to a 
firm and deteianined expression calling for a corresponding 
change of conduct. 

We are all accustomed to consider moral doctrine to be a 
very insipid and dull affair, in which there cannot be any 
thing new or interesting ; whereas, in reality, human life, 
with all its complicated and varied actions, which seem to 
hav'e no connection with morals, — political activity, activity 
in the sciences, in the arts, and in commerce, — has no other 
object than to elucidate moral truths more and more, and to 
confirm, simi)lify, and make them accessible to all. 

I recollect once while walking in a street in Moscow I saw 
a man come out and examine the flag-stones attentively’ ; 
then, choosing one of them, he sat down by’ it and began 
to scrape or rub it vigorously. 

“ What is he doing with the pavement? ” I wondered ; and, 
having come uj) close to him, I discovered he was a young 
man from a butcher’s shop, and was sharpening his knife on 
the flagstone. He was not thinking about the stones when 
examining them, and still less while doing his work : he was 
merely sharpening his knife. It was necessary for him to do 
so in ordei’ to cut the meat, but to me it seemed that he was 
doing something to the pavement. 

In the same way mankind seems to be occupied with com- 
merce, treaties, wars, sciences, arts ; and yet for them one 
thing only' is imiiortant, and they do only that, — they are 
elucidating those moral laws by which they live. 

Moral laws are already in existence, and mankind has been 
merely re-discovering them : this elucidation appears to be 


48 


WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 


unimportant and imperceptible to one who has no need of 
moral law, and who does not desire to live by it. Yet tliis is 
not only the chief, but ought to be the sole, business of all 
men. This elucidation is imperceptible in the same way as 
the difference between a sharp knife and a blunt one is im- 
perceptible. A knife remains a knife ; and one who has not 
got to cut any thing with it, will not notice its edge : but for 
one who understands that all his life depends more or less 
upon whether his knife is blunt or sharp, every improvement 
in sharpening it is important; and such a man knows that 
there must be no limit to this improvement, and that the 
knife is only really a knife when it is sharp, and when it cuts 
what it has to cut. 

The conviction of this truth flashed upon me when I began 
to write my pamphlet. Previously it seemed to me that I 
knew every thing about my subject, that I had a thorough 
understanding of every thing connected with those questions 
which had been awakened in me by the impressions made in 
Lia[)Ln’s house during the census ; but when 1 tried to sum 
them up, and to put them on paper, it turned out that the 
knife would not cut, and had to be sharpened : so it is only 
now after three years that I feel my knife is sharp enough 
for me to cut out what 1 want. It is not that 1 have learned 
new things : my thoughts ai’e still the same ; but they were 
blunt formerly ; they kept scattering in every direction ; 
there was no edge to them ; nor was any thing brought, as it 
is now, to one central point, to one most simple and plain 
conclusion. 


XIII. 

I RECOLLECT that during the whole time of my unsuccess- 
ful endeavors to help the unfortunate inhabitants of Moscow, 
I felt that I was like a man trying to help others out of a 
morass, who was himself all the time stuck fast in it. Every 
effort made me feel the instability of that ground upon which 
I was standing. I was conscious that I myself was in this 
same morass ; but this acknowledgment did not help me to 
look more closely under my feet in order to ascertain the 
nature of the ground upon which 1 stood : I kept looking for 
some exterior means to remedy the existing evil. 

I felt then that my life was a bad one, and that people 
ought not to live so ; yet I did not come to the most natural 


WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 


49 


and oV)vious conclusion, that T must first reform my own mode 
of life before I should have any conception of how to reform 
tliat of others. And so 1 began as it were at the wi-ong end. 
I was living in town, and 1 desired to improve the lives of 
the men there ; but 1 was soon convinced that I liad no jiower 
to do so, and I began to ponder over the nature of town life 
and town miseiy. 

I said to myself over and ovmr, “ What is this town life 
and town miseiy? And why, while living in town, am I 
unable to help the town poor?” The only rejily I found 
was, that 1 was ^lowerless to do any thing for tliem : first, 
because there were too many collected together in one place 5 
secondly, because none of them was at all like those in the 
country. And again I asked myself, “ Why are there so 
many here, and in what do they differ from the country 
poor? ” 

To both these questions the answer was one and the same. 
There are many poor people in towns because there all those 
who have nothing to subsist on in the country are collected 
round the rich, and their peculiarity consists only in that 
they have all come into the towns from the country in order 
to get a living. (If there are any town poor born there, 
whose fathei’s and grandfathers were towui born, these in 
their turn originally came there to get a living.) Rut what 
are we to understand by the expression, “ getting a living in 
town”? There is something strange in the expression : it 
sounds like a joke when we reflect on its meaning. How is 
it that from the country — i.e., from places where there are 
woods, meadows, corn and cattle, wfiiere the earth yields the 
treasures of fertility — men come away in order to get a 
living in a place where there are none of these advantages, 
but onl}’ stones and dust? What, then, do these words 
signify, to “ get a living in town ” ? 

Such a phrase is constantly used, both by the employed- 
and their employers, and that as if it were quite clear and 
intelligible. 1 remember now all the hundreds and thousands 
of town people living well or in want with whom I had 
si)oken about their object in coming here : and all of them, 
without excei)tion, told me they had quitted their villages in 
order to get a living; that according to the proverb, Mos- 
cow neither sow^s nor reaps, yet lives in wealth ; ” that in 
Moscow’ there is al)nndance of every thing; and that, there- 
fore, in Moscow one may get the money which is needed in 


50 


WHAT MUST ]rE DO THEN? 


the country for getting corn, cottages, horses, and the other 
essentials of life. 

But, in fact, the source of all wealth is the cotmtry ; there 
only are real riches, — corn, woods, horses, and every thing 
necessary. Wh\’ then go to towns in order to get what is 
to be had in the country? And why should peo[)le carry 
away from the country into the towns such things as are 
necessary for country people, — flour, oats, horses, and 
cattle ? 

Hundreds of times have I spoken thus with peasants who 
live in towns; and from my talks with them, and from my 
own observations, it became clear to me that the accumula- 
tion of country people in our cities is parth’ necessary, be- 
cause they could not otherwise earn their livelihood, and 
partly voluntary, because they are attracted by the tempta- 
tions of a town life. It is true that the circumstances of a 
peasant are such, that, in order to satisfy the pecuniary de- 
mands made on him in his village, he cannot do it otherwise 
than by selling that corn and cattle which he very well knows 
will be necessary for himself; and he is compelled, whether 
he will or not, to go to town in order to earn back that which 
was his own. But it is also true that he is attracted to town 
by the charms of a comparatively easy way of getting money, 
and by the luxury of lif there ; and, under the pretext of 
thus earning his living, he goes there in order to have easier 
work and better eating, to drink tea three times a da3^ to 
dress himself smarting and even to get drunk, and lead a dis- 
solute life. 

The cause is a simple one, for property passing from the 
hands of the agriculturalist into those of non-agriculturalists 
thus accumulates in towns. Observe towards autumn how 
much wealth is gathered together in villages. Then come 
the demands of taxes, rents, recruiting ; then the temptations 
of vodka, marriages, feasts, peddlers, and all sorts of other 
snares ; so that in one way or other, this property, in all its 
various forms (sheep, calves, cows, horses, pigs, poultry, 
eggs, butter, hemp, flax, rye, oats, buckwheat, pease, hemp- 
seed, and flax-seed), passes into the hands of strangers, and 
is taken first to provincial towns, and from them to the ca{)i- 
tals. A villager is compelled to dispose of all these in order 
to satisfy the demamls made upon him, and the temptations 
offered him : and, having thus dispensed his goods, he is left 
in want, and must follow where his wealth has been taken ; 


WHAT MUST WE BO THEN? 


51 


and there he tries to earn back the naoney necessary for his 
most urgent needs at iioine ; and so. being pailly carried 
away by tliese temptations, he himself, along with others, 
makes use of the accumulated wealth. 

Everywhere throughout Russia, and I think not only in 
Russia but all over the world, the same thing hai)p'ens. 
The wealth of country producers passes into the hands of 
tradespeople, land-owners, government functionaries, manu- 
facturers ; the men who receive this wealth want to enjoy it, 
and to enjoy it fully they must be in town. In the village, 
in the first i)lace, owing to the inhabitants being scattered, it 
is diflicult for the rich to gratify all their desires : you do not 
find there all sorts of shops, banks, restaurants, theatres, 
and various kinds of public amusements. 

Secondly, another of the chief pleasures procured by 
wealth, — vanity, the desire to astonish, to make a display 
befoi-e others, — cannot be gratified in the country for the 
same reason, its- inhabitants being too scattered. There is 
no one in the countiy to ai)preciate luxury ; there is no one 
to astonish. There you may have wl t you like to embellish 
3’our dwelling, — pictures, bronze statues, all sorts of car- 
riages, fine toilets, — but there is nobody to look at them or 
to envy you ; the peasants do not understand the value of all 
this, and cannot make head or tail of it. Thirdly, luxuiy in 
the country is even disagreeable to a man who has a con- 
science, and is an anxiety to a timid person. One feels unensy 
or ashamed at taking a milk bath, or in feeding puppies with 
milk, when there are children close by needing it: one feels 
the same in building pavilions and gardens among a peo])le 
who live in cottages covered with stable litter, and who have 
no wood to burn. There is no one in the village to prevent 
the stu[)id, uneducated peasants from spoiling our comforts. 

And, therefore, rich people gather together in towns, and 
settle near those who, in similar positions, have similar de- 
sires. In towns, the enjoyment of all sorts of luxuries is 
carefully protected by a numerous jiolice. The chief inhabit- 
ants of the town are government functionaries, round whom 
all sorts of master-workmen, artisans, and all the rich 
l)eo[)le have settled. There, a lich man has only to think 
about any thing in order to get it. It is also more agreeable 
for him to live there, because he can gratify his vanity ; there 
are peojile with whom he may tiy to conpiete in luxury, 
whom he may astonish or eclipse. But it is especially 


52 


■WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 


pleasant for a wealthy man to live in town, because, where his 
country life was uncomfortable, and somewhat incongriions 
on account of his luxury, in town, on the contrary, it '.vould 
be uncomfortable for him not to live splendidly, and as his 
e(iiials in wealth do. 

What seemed out of place there, appears indispensable 
here. l\ich people collect together in towns, and. under the 
l)rotection of the authorities, peacefully enjoy all that has 
been brought there by the villagers. A countryman often 
cannot help going to town where a ceaseless round of feast- 
ing is going on, where what has been pi'ocured from the 
peasants is being spent ; he comes into the town in order to 
feed upon those crumbs which fall fi-om the tables of the 
rich ; and [)artly by observing the careless, luxurious, and 
universally approved mode of living of these men, he begins 
to desire to order his own affairs in such a manner that he, 
too, may be able to work less, and avail himself more of 
the labor of others. And at last he decides to settle down 
in the neighborhood of the wealth}’, trying by every means in 
his power to get back from them what is necessary for him, 
and submitling to all the conditions which the rich enforce. 
These country people assist in gratifying all the fancies of 
the wealthy : they sei’ve them in public baths, in taverns, as 
coachmen, and as prostitutes. They manufacture cari’iages, 
make toys and dresses, and little by little learn from their 
wealthy neighbors how to live like them, not by real labor, 
but by all sorts of ti'icks, squeezing out from others the 
money they have collected, and so become depraved, and are 
ruined. It is then this same population, depi’aved by the 
wealth of towns, which forms that city misery which I 
wished to relieve, but could not. 

And indeed, if one only reflects upon the condition of 
these country folk coming to town in order to earn money 
to buy bread or to pay taxes, seeing everywhere thousands 
of rubles foolishly squandered, and hundreds very easily 
earned, while they have to earn their pence by the hardest 
labor, one cannot but be astonished that there are still many 
of such people at work, and that they do not all of them 
have recourse to a more easy way of getting money, — by 
trade, begging, vice, cheating, and even i-obbery. 

But it is only we who join in the ceaseless oi'gy going on in 
the towns who can got so accustomed to our own mode of 
life, that it seems quite natural to us for one line gentleman 


WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 


53 


to occupy five large rooms which are heated with such a quan- 
tity of firewood as would be enough for twenty families to 
vvarm their homes, and cook their food with. To drive a 
short distance, we employ two thoroughbreds and two men ; 
we cover oiii- inlaid floors with carpets, and spend five or ten 
thousand I'ubles on a ball, or even twenty-five for a Christ- 
mas-tree, and so on. Yet a man who needs ten rubles in 
order to buy bread for his famil}^ or from whom his last 
sheep is taken to meet a tax of seven rubles which he can- 
not save by the hardest labor, cannot get accustomed to all 
this, which we imagine must seem quite natural to the poor ; 
there are even such naive people as say that the poor are 
thankful to us because we feed them by living so luxuri- 
ously. 

But poor people do not lose their reasoning powers because 
the}' are poor : they reason quite in the same manner as we 
do. When w'e have heard that some one has lost a fortune 
at cards, or squandered ten or twenty thousand rubles, the 
first thought that comes into onr minds is: How stupid and 
bad this man must be to have parted with such a large sum 
without any equivalent ; and how well I could have emi)loyed 
this money for some building I have long wanted to get done, 
or for the improvement of my estate, and so on. 

So also do the poor reason on seeing how foolishly w^e 
waste onr wealth ; all the more forcibly, because this money 
is needed, not to satisfy their whims, but for the chief neces- 
saries of life, of which they are in want. We are greatly 
mistaken in thinking that the poor, while able to reason thus, 
still look on unconcernedly at the luxury around them. 

They have never acknowledged, and never will, that it is 
right for one man to be always idling, and for another to be 
continually working. At first they are astonished at it and 
offended ; then, looking closer into the question, they see that 
this order of things is acknowledged to be lawful, and they 
try themselves to get rid of working, and to take part in the 
feasting. Some succeed in so doing, and acquire similar 
wanton habits ; others, little by little, approach such a condi- 
tion ; others break down before they reach their object, and, 
having lost the habit of working, fill the night-houses and the 
haunts of vice. 

The year, before last we took from the village a ,young 
peasant to be our butler’s assistant. He couhl not agree 
with the footman, and was sent avvay ; he entered the service 


54 


WIJAT MUST WE DO THEN? 


of a nievcbant, pleased his masters, and now wears a watch 
and chain, and has smart boots. 

In his place we took another peasant, a married man. He 
turned out a drunkard, and lost mone}^ We took a third : he 
began to drink, and, having drunk up all he had, was for a 
long time in distress in a night-lodging-house. Our old cook 
took to drinking in the town, and fell ill. Last year a foot- 
man who used formerly to have fits of drunkenness, and who 
when in the village kept himself from it for live years, when 
living in Moscow without his wife, who used to keep him in 
order, began again to drink, and mined himself. A young 
boy of our village is living as butler’s assistant at m}^ 
brother’s. His grandfather, a blind old man, came to me 
while I was living in the country, and asked me to persuade 
this grandson to send ten rnldes for taxes, because, unless 
this were done, the cow would have to be sold. 

“ He keeps telling me that he has to dress himself respect- 
ably,” said the old man. “ He got himself boots, and that 
ought to be enough ; but I actually believe he would like to 
buy a watch ! ” 

in these words the grandfather expressed the utmost 
degree of extravagance. And this was realA so ; for the old 
man could not afford a drop of oil for his food during the 
whole of Lent, and his wood was spoilt because he had not 
the ruble and a quarter necessary for cutting it up. But the 
old man’s irony turned out to be a realit}'. His grandson 
came to me dressed in a fine black overcoat, and in boots for 
which he had paid eight rubles. Lately he got ten rubles 
from my brother, and spent them on his boots. And my 
children, who have known the boy from his infanc3^ 
that he really considers it necessary" to bu}^ a watch. He is 
a verv good boy, but he considers that he will be laughed at 
for not having one. 

This year a housemaid, eighteen years of age, formed an 
intimacy with the coachman, and was sent away. Our old 
nurse, to whom I related the case, reminded me of a girl 
whom I had quite forgotten. Ten years ago, during our 
short stay in ^loscow, she formed an intimacy with a foot- 
man. She was tdso sent away, and drifted at last into a 
house of ill-fame, and died in a hospital before she was 
twenty yeais of age. 

We liave only to look around us in order to become terrified 
b}' that infection which (to say nothing of manufactories 


WHAT MUST irz DO THEN? 


55 


and workshops existing only to gratify onr luxury) we di- 
rectly, by our luxurious town life, spread among those very 
people whom we desire afterwards to help. 

Thus, having got at the root of that town misery which I 
was not able to alleviate. I saw tliat its lirst cause is in our 
taking from tlie villagers their necessaries and carrying them 
to town. The second cause is, that in those towns we avail 
ourselves of what we have gathered from the country, and, 
by our foolish liixuiy, tempt and deprave those peasants who 
follow us there in order to get back something of what we 
have taken from them in the country. 


XIV. 

From an opposite point of view to that previousl}' stated, 
I again came to the same conclnsion. Recollecting all my 
connection with the town poor during this period, I saw that 
one reason why 1 was not able to help them wms their insin- 
cerity and falseness. They all considered me not as an 
individual, but merely as a means to an end. I felt I could 
not become intimate witii them : I thought I did not perhaps 
understand how to do so ; but without truthfulness, no help 
w'as possible. How can one help a man who does not tell all 
his circumstances? Formerly I accused the poor of this, — 
it is so natural to accuse others ; but one word spoken by 
a remarkable man. namely, Sutaief, who was then on a visit 
at my house, cleared up the difiiculty, and show'ed me wherein 
lay the cause of my non-success. 

I remember that even then what he said made a deep im- 
pression upon me ; but 1 did not understand its full meaning 
until afterwards. It happened that wdiile in the full ardor 
of my self-deception, I was at my sister’s house, Sutaief 
being also there ; and my sister was questioning me about 
my work. 

I was relating it to her : and, as is often the case when 
one does not fully believe in one’s own enterprises, I related 
with great entimsiasm, ardor, and at full length, all I had 
been doing, and all the possible results. 1 was telling her 
how we should keep our eyes open to what went on in IMos- 
cow ; how we should take care of orphans and old people ; 
how we should afford means to impoverished villagers to 
return to their homes, and pave the way to reform the 


56 


WIIAT MUST WE BO THEN? 


depraved. I explained, that, if we succeeded in our under- 
taking, there would not be in Moscow a single poor man who 
could not find help. 

My sister sympathized with me ; and while speaking, I kept 
looking now and then at JSutaief, knowing his Christian life, 
and the im[)oitance attached by him to works of charity, I 
expected sympathy from him, and I spoke so that he might 
understand me ; for, though 1 was addressing my sister, yet 
my conversation was really more directed to him. 

’ lie sat immovable, dressed in his black-tanned sheepskin 
coat, which he, like other peasants, wore in-doors as well as 
out. It seemed that he was not listening to us, but was 
tliinking about something else. His small eyes gave no re- 
responding gleam, but seemed to be turned inwards. Having 
spoken out to my own satisfaction, I turned to him and asked 
him what he thought about it. 

“The whole thing is superficial,” he replied. 

“ Why?” 

“ The i)lan is an empty one, and no good will come of it,” 
he repeated with conviction. 

“How is it that nothing will come of it? M^hy is it a 
useless business, if we help thousands, or even hundreds, of 
unhappy ones? Is it a bad thing, according to the gospel, 
to clotlie the naked, or to feed the Imngry? ” 

“ I know, I know; but what you are doing is not that. 
Is it possible to help thus? You are walking in the street; 
somebody asks you fora few kopeks; you give it him. Is 
that charity? Do him some si)iritual good : teach liim . . . 
what 3 ’ou gave him merely says, ‘ Leave me alone.’ ” 

“ No ; but that is not what we were speaking of : we wish 
to become acquainted with the wants, and then help by 
money and b}" deeds. We will tiy to find for the poor people 
some work to do.” 

“ That would be no way of helping them.” 

“How then? must they be left to die of starvation and 
cold?” 

“ Wliy left to die? How many are there of them? ” 

“How many?” said I, thinking that he took the matter 
so lightly from not knowing the great number of these men. 

“ You are not aware, I dare say, that there are in Moscow 
about twenty thousand cold and hungry. And then, think 
of those in St. Petersburg and other towns I ” 

He smiled. 


WIIAT MUST WE DO THEN f 67 

“ Twenty thousand ! And how many families are there in 
Eussia alone? Would they amount to a million? ” 

“ Well ; but what of that? ” 

“•What of that?” said he, with animation, and his e3’es 
sparkled. “ Let us unite them with ourselves ; I am not 
rich myself, but will at once take two of them. You take a 
young fellow into your kitchen : I invite him into my fainilv. 
If there were ten times as many, we should take them all into 
our families. You one, I another. We shall work together; 
those I take to live with me will see how 1 work ; I will teach 
tliem to reap, and we shall eat out of one bowl, at one table ; 
and tlRW will hear a good word from me, and from }’ou also. 
This is charity ; but all this plan of 3 ours is no good.” 

These plain woi’ds made an impression ujion me. I could 
not help recognizing that this was true ; but it seemed to me 
tlien, that, notwithstanding the justice of what he said, 1113" 
proposed plan iniglit, perhai)s, also be useful. 

lint the longer I was occupied with this affair, and the 
closer m3’ intercourse with the poor, the oftener I recollected 
these words, and the greater meaning I found in them. 

I, indeed, go in an expensive fur coat, or drive in my own 
carriage to a man who is in .want of boots : he sees 1113^ house 
which costs two hundred rubles a month, or he notices that 
1 give awa3’, without thinking, five rubles, onl3’ because such 
is my fanc3^ ; he is then aware that if I give awa3’’ rubles in 
such a manner, it is because I have accumulated so man3’ of 
tliem that I have a lot to spare, wdiich I not only am never 
in the liabit of giving to any one, but which I have, without 
compunction, taken awa3^ from others. What can he see in 
me but one of those persons who have become possessed of 
what should belong to him? And what other feeling can he 
have towards me but the desire to get back as many as pos- 
sible of these rubles which were taken b3^ me from him and 
from others? 

I should like to become intimate with him, and 1 complain 
that he is not sincere ; but I nm- afraid to sit down upon his 
bed for fear of lice or some infectious disease : I am also 
afraid to let him come into my room ; and when he comes to 
me half-dressed, he has to wait, — if fortunate, in the en- 
ti*ance-hnll, but oftener in the cold porch. And then 1 say 
that it is all his fault that 1 cannot become intimate wdth him, 
and tliat he is not sincere. 

Let the most hard-hearted man sit down to dine upon 


58 


WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 


five courses among hungry people who have little or nothing 
to eat except black bread, and no one could have the heart 
to eat while hungry people are around him licking their lips. 

Therefore, in order to eat well, when living among half- 
starving men, the first thing necessary is to hide ourselves 
from them, and to eat so that they may not see us. This is 
the very thing we do at present. 

Without prejudice I looked into our own mode of life, and 
became aware that it was not by chance that closer inter- 
course with the poor is difficult for us, but that we ourselves 
are intentionally ordering our lives in such a way as to make 
this intercourse impossible. And not only this; but, on look- 
ing at our lives, or at the lives of rich people from without, 
I saw that all that is considered as the snmmiim bomim of 
these lives consists in being separated as much as possible 
from the poor, or is in some way or other connected with this 
desired separation. 

In fact, all the aim of our lives, beginning with food, dress, 
dwelling, cleanliness, and ending with our education, con- 
sists in placing a gulf between us and them. And in order 
to establish this distinction and separation we spend nine- 
tenths of our wealth in erecting impassable barriers. 

The first thing a man does who has grown rich is to leave 
off eating with others out of one bowl. lie arranges 
plates for himself and his family, and separates himself from 
the kitchen and the servants. He feeds his servants well, in 
order that their mouths may not water, and he dines alone. 
But eating alone is dull. He invents whatever he can to im- 
prove his food, embellish his table ; and the very manner of 
taking food, as at dinner-parties, becomes for him a matter 
of vanity, of pride. His manner of eating his food is a means 
of separating himself from other people. For a rich man it 
is out of the question to invite a poor person to his table. 
One must know how to hand a lady to table, how to bow, 
how to sit, to eat, to use a finger-bowl, all of which the rich 
alone know how to do. 

The same holds good with dress. 

If a rich man, in order to cover his body and protect it 
from cold, wore ordinary dress, — a jacket, a fur coat, felt 
shoes, leather boots, an undercoat, trousers,- a shirt, — he 
would require very little ; and, having two fur coats, he could 
not help giving one away to somebody who had none. But 
the wealthy man begins with wearing clothes which consist 


WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 


59 


of many separate parts, and can be of use only on particular 
occasions, and tliei-efore are of no use for a poor man. The 
man of fashion must have evening dress-coats, waistcoats, 
fi'ock-coats, patLMit-leather shoes : his wife, bodices and 
dresses (wliich, according to fashion, are made of many 
parts), higli-heeled slioes, hunting and travelling jackets, 
and so on. All these articles can be of use only to people 
ill a condition far removed from poverty. 

And thus dressing also becomes a means of isolation. 
Fashions make their aiipearance, and are among the chief 
things which separate the rich man from the poor one. 

The same thing shows itself more plainly still in our dwell- 
ings. In order for one person to occupy ten rooms, we must 
manage so that he ma}^ not be seen by people who are living 
by tens in one room. 

The richer a man is, the more difficult it is to get at him ; 
the more footmen there are between him and people not rich, 
the more impossible it is for him to receive a poor guest, to 
let him walk on cai'pets, and sit on satin-covered chairs. 

The same thing haiipens in travelling. A peasant who 
drives in a cart or on a carrier’s sledge must be very hard- 
hearted if he refuses to give a pedestrian a lift ; he has 
enough room, and can do it. But the richer the carriage is, 
the more im[)Ossible it is to put any one in it besides the 
owner of it. Some of the most elegant carriages are so 
irnrrow ns to be termed egotists.” 

The same thing applies to all the modes of living expressed 
by the word “cleanliness.” Cleanliness! Who does not 
know human beings, especinlly women, who make a great 
viitue of cleanliness? Who does not know the various 
phases of this cleanliness, which have no limit whatever 
when it is procured by the labor of others? Who among 
self-made men has not experienced in his own pei'son with 
what pains he carefully accustomed himself to this cleanli- 
ness, which illustrates the saying, “ White hands are fond of 
another’s labor ” ? 

To-day cleanliness consists in changing one’s shirt daily, 
and to-morrow it will be changed twice a day. At first, one 
has to wash one’s hands and neck every day, then one will 
have to wash one’s feet every day, and afterwards it will be 
the whole body, and in peculiar methods. A clean table- 
cloth serves for two da3^s, then it is changed every day, and 
afterwards two table-cloths a day are used. To-day the 


60 


WnAT MUST WE DO THEN? 


footman is required to have clean hands : to-morrow he must 
wear gloves, and clean gloves, and he must hand the letters 
on a clean tray. 

And there are no limits to this cleanliness, which is of no 
other use to any one except to separate us from others, and 
to make our intercourse with them im[)ossible, while cleanli- 
ness is obtained through the labor of, others. 

Not only so ; but when I had deeply reflected upon this, I 
came to the conclusion that what we term education is a sim- 
ilar thing. Language cannot deceive : it gives the right ap- 
pellation to eveiy thing. The common peoi)le call education 
fashionable dress, smart conversation, white hands, and a cer- 
tain degi-ee of cleanliness. Of such a man they say, when 
distinguishing him from others, that he is an educated man. 

In a little higher circle, men by education denote the same 
things, but add playing on the piano, the knowledge of 
French, good Kussian spelling, and still greater cleanliness. 

In the still higher circle, education consists of all this, with 
the addition of English, and a dii)loma from a high government 
establishment, and a still greater degree of cleanliness. But 
in all these shades education is in substance quite the same. 

It consists in those forms and various kinds of information 
which separate a man from his fellow-creatures. Its object 
is the same as that of cleanliness : to separate us from the 
crowd, in order that they, hungry and cold, may not see hovv 
we feast. But it is impossible to hide ourselves, and our 
efforts are seen through. 

And so I became aware that the cause of the impossibility 
for us rich men to hell) town poor was nothing more or 
less than the impossibility of our ha\'ing closer intercourse 
with them, and that this we ourselves create b}^ our whole 
life, and b}^ all the uses we make of our wealth. I became 
])ersuaded that between us rich men and the poor there 
stood, erected by ourselves, a barrier of cleanliness and edu- 
cation which arose out of our wealth, and that, in order to be 
able to help them, we have first to break down this barrier, 
and I'ender possible the realization of the means suggested 
by Sutaief, to take the poor into our respective homes. 
And so, as I have already said at the beginning of this chap- 
ter, I came to the same conclusion from a different i)oint of 
view from that to which the train of thought nbout town 
misery had led me; viz., the cause of it all lay in our 
wealth. 


WUAT MUST WE DO THEN? 


61 


XV. 

I BKGAN again to analyze tlie matter from a tliii-d and 
purely pei'sonal point of view. Among the i)henomena 
which particularly impressed me dui'ing my benevolent ac- 
tivity, there was one, — a very strange one, — which 1 could 
not understand for a long time. 

Whenever 1 happened, in the street or at home, to give a 
poor person a trilling sum vvdthout enteiaiig into conversation 
with him. I saw, or imagined I saw, on his face an expres- 
sion of [)leasiire and gratitude; and I myself experienced an 
agreeable feeling at this form of charity. I saw that I had 
done what was expected of me. But when I stopi)ed and 
began to question the man about his past and present life, 
entering more or less into particulars, I felt it was impossible 
to give him any thing ; and 1 always began to finger the money 
in my purse, and, not knowing how much to give, I always 
gave more under these circumstances : but, nevertheless, I saw 
that the poor man went away from me dissatisfied. When I 
entered into still closer intercourse with him, 1113^ doubts as to 
how much I should give increased ; and, no matter what I 
gave, the recipient seemed more and more gloomy and dis- 
satisfied. 

As a general rule, it almost alwa3\s happened that if, upon 
nearer acquaintance with the poor man, I gave him three 
rubles or moie, I always saw gloominess, dissatisfaction, and 
even anger depicted on his face ; and sometimes, after hav- 
ing received from me ten rubles, he has left me without even 
thanking me, as if I had offended him. 

In such cases I was always uncomfortable and ashamed, 
and felt m3"self guilt3G When I watched the i)oor person dur- 
ing weeks, months, or 3^ears, helped him, and expressed my 
views, and became intimate with him, then our intercourse 
became a torment, and I saw that the man des[)ised me. 
And I felt that he was right in doing so. When in the street 
a beggar asks me, along with other passers-by, for three 
kopeks, and I give it him, then, in his estimation, I am a 
kind and good man who gives “ one of the threads which go 
to make the shirt of a naked one ; ” he expects nothing more 
than a thread, and, if I give it, he sincerely blesses me. 

But if I stop and si)eak to him as man to man, show him 
that 1 wish to be more than a mere passer-by, and, as it often 


62 


WIIAT MUST WE DO THEN 9 


liappened, he sheds tears in relating his misfortune, then he 
sees in me not merely a chance helper, but that uhich I wish 
him to see, — a kind man. If I am a kind man, then my 
kindness cannot stop at twenty kopeks, or at ten rubles, or 
ten thousand. One cannot be a second-rate kind man. Let 
us suppose that I give him much ; that 1 put liim straight, 
dress him, set him on his legs so that he can help himself, 
but, from some reason or other, either from an accident or 
his own weakness, he again loses the great-coat and cloth- 
ing and money 1 gave him, he is again hungiy and cold, and 
he again comes to me, why should J refuse him assistance? 
For if the end of my benevolent activity was merely the at- 
tainment of some definite, material object, such as giving 
him so many rubles, or a certain great-coat, having given 
them I could be easy in my mind ; but the end I have in view 
is to be a benevolent man ; that is, to put myself in the 
position of every other man. All understand kindness thus, 
and not otherwise. 

And therefore, if such a man should spend in drink all 
you gave him twenty times over, and be again hungry and 
cold, then, if you are a benevolent man, you cannot help 
giving him more money, you can never leave off doing so 
while you have more than he has ; but if you draw back, 
you show that all you have done before was done by you 
not because you are benevolent, but because you wish to 
ap[)ear so to others and to him. And it was from my having 
to back out of such cases, and by ceasing to give, by seem- 
ing to put a limit to my kindness, that 1 felt a painful sense 
of shame. 

Wliat was this feeling, then? I had exi)erienced it in 
Liapin’s house and in the country, and when I hai)pened to 
give money or any thing else to tlie poor, and in my adven- 
tures among the town people. One case which occurred to 
me lately reminded me of it forcibly, and led me to discover 
its cause. 

It happened in the country. I wanted twenty kopeks to give 
to a pilgrim. I sent my son to boi-row it from somebody. 
Me brought it to the man, and told me that he had borrowed 
it from the cook. Some days after other pilgrims came, 
and I was again in need of twenty kopeks. I had a riil)le. 
I recollected what I owed tlie cook, went into the kitchen, 
ho})ing that she would have some more coppers. 1 said, — ■ 

“ 1 owe yon twenty kopeks : here is a ruble.” 


WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 63 

I had not yet done speaking when the cook called his wife 
fi'om the adjoining room : Parasha, take it,” he said. 

I, thinking she had understood what I wanted, gave her 
tlie ruble. 1 must tell you that the cook had been living at 
our house about a week, and I had seen his wife, but had 
never spoken to her. I just wislied to tell her to give me 
the change, when she briskly bowed herself over my hand, 
and was about to kiss it, evidently thinking I was giving her 
the ruble. I stammered out something and left the kitchen. 
I felt ashamed, painfully ashamed, as I had not felt for a long 
time. I actually trembled, and felt that I was making a wry 
face ; and, groaning with shame, 1 ran away from the kitchen. 

This feeling which I fancied I had not deserved, and which 
came over me quite unexpectedly, impressed me particularly, 
because it was so long since I had felt any thing like it, and 
also because I fancied that I had been living in a way there 
was no reason for me to be ashamed of. 

This surprised me greatly. I related the case to my family, 
to m}' acquaintances, and they all agreed that the}^ also would 
have exi)erienced the same. And 1 began to reflect : why is 
it that 1 felt so? 

The answer came from a case which had formerly occurred 
to me in Moscow. I reflected upon it, and understood this 
shame which 1 have always experienced when I happen to 
give an}' thing besides trifling alms to beggars and pilgrims, 
which 1 am accustomed to give, and which 1 consider not as 
charitv, but i)oliteness. 

Jf a man asks you for a light, you must light a match if 
you have it. Jf a man begs for tliree or tvvent}’ kopeks, or a 
few rubles, you must give if 3 'ou have them. It is a question 
of politeness, not of charity. 

The following is the case I referred to. I have already 
spoken about two peasants with whom I sawed wood three 
years ago. One Saturday evening, in the twilight, I was 
walking with tliem back to town. They were going to their 
master to receive their wages. On crossing a bridge we met 
an oh.l man. He begged, and I gave him twenty kopeks. I 
gave, thinking what a good impression my alms would make 
upon Semyon, with whom I had been speaking on religious 
questions. 

Semyon, a peasant from the province of Vladimir, who 
had a wife and two children in Moscow, also turned up the 
lappet of his kaftan, and took out his purse ; and, after having 


64 


WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 


looked over his mone}’, he picked out a three-kopek piece, 
gave it to the old man, and asked for two kopeks back. 
The old man showed him in his hand two three-ko[)ek pieces 
and a single kopek. Semyon looked at it, was about to take 
one kopek, but, changing his mind, took otf his cap, ci’ossed 
himself, and went away, leaving the old man the three-kopek 
piece. 

1 was acquainted with all Semyon’s pecuniary circum- 
stances. He had neither house nor other [)roperty. When 
he gave the old man the three kopeks, he [)ossessed six rubles 
and fifty kopeks, which he had been saving up, and this was 
all the capital he had. 

My property amounted to about six hundred thousand 
rubles. I had a wife and children, so also had Semyon. He 
was younger than I, and had not so many children ; but his 
children were young, and two of mine were grown-up men, 
old enough to W(n-k,so that our circumstances, independently 
of our pi’operty, were alike, though I was in this respect 
even better olf than he. 

He gave three kopeks, I gave twenty. What was, then, 
the difference in our gifts? What should I have given in 
order to do as he had done? He had six hundred kopeks; 
out of these he gave one, and then another two. 1 had six 
hundred thousand rubles. In order to give as much as Sem- 
yon gave, 1 ought to have given three thousand rubles, and 
asked the man to give me back two thousand ; and, in the 
event of his not having change, to leave him these two 
thousand also, cross myself, and go away calmly, conversing 
about how people live in the manufactories, and what is the 
price of liver at the Smolensk mai’ket. 

I thought about this at the time, but it was long before I 
was able to draw from this case the conclusion which inevi- 
tably follows from it. This conclusion seems to be so un- 
common and strange, notwithstanding its mathematical accu- 
racy, that it requires time in order to get accustomed to it. 
I could not help thinking there was some mistake in it, but 
there is none. It is only the dreadful darkness of prejudice 
in which we live. 

This, when I arrived at it and recognized its inevitable- 
ness, ex[)lained to me the nature of my feelings of shame in 
the presence of the cook’s wife, and before all the poor to 
whom I gave and still give money. Indeed, what is that 
money which I give to the poor, and which the cook’s wife 


WUAT MUST WE DO THEN? 


65 


thought T was giving her? In the majority of cases it forms 
a minute part of my income that it cannot be expressed 
in a fraction comprehensible to Semyon or to a cook’s wife, 
— it is in most cases a millionth part or thereabout. I give 
so little that my gift is not, and cannot be, a sacrifice to me : 
it is only a something with which I amuse myself when and 
how it pleases me. And this was indeed how my cook’s 
wife had understood me. If I gave a stranger in the street 
a ruble or twenty kopeks, why should I not give her also a 
ruble? For her, such a distribution of money was the same 
thing as a gentleman throwing gingerbread nuts into a crowd. 
It is the amusement of people who possess much “ fool’s 
money.” I was ashamed, because the mistake of the cook’s 
wife showed me plainly what ideas she and all poor people 
must have of me. “ He is throwing away a ‘ fool’s money ;’ ” 
that is, money not earned by him. 

And, indeed, what is my money, and how did I come by 
it? One part of it I collected in the shape of rent for my 
land, which I had inherited from my father. The peasant 
sold his last sheep or cow in order to pa}' it to me. 

Another part of my money I received for the books I had 
written. If my books are harmful, and yet sell, they can 
only do so by some seductive attraction, and the money 
which I receive for them is badly earned money ; but if my 
books are useful, the thing is still worse. I do not give 
them to people, but say, “ Give me so many rubles, and I 
will sell them to you.” 

And as in the former case a peasant sells his last sheep, 
here a poor student or a teacher does it : each poor person 
who buys denies himself some necessary thing in order to 
give me this money. And now I have gathered much of 
such money, and what am I doing with it? I take it to 
town, give it to the poor only when they satisfy all my 
fancies, and come to town to clean pavements, lamps, or 
boots, to work for me in the factories, and so on. And with 
this money I draw from them all I can. I try to give them 
as little as I can, and take from them as much as ])ossible. 

And now, (piite unexpectedly, I begin to share all this said 
money with these same poor persons for nothing, but not 
indiscriminately, only as fancy prompts me. 

Why should not every poor man exi)ect that his turn might 
come to-day to be one of such with whom I amuse myself by 
giving them my “ fool’s money ” ? 


66 


WUAT MUST WE BO TEEN? 


Thus eveiy one regards me as did the cook’s wife. And 
I had gone astray with the notion that this was charit}’, — 
this taking away thousands with one hand, and throwing 
kopeks with the other to those I select. 

No wonder I was ashamed. Hut, before beginning to do 
good, I must leave off the evil, and put myself in a position 
in which 1 should cease to cause it. But all my course of 
life is evil. If 1 were to give away a hundred thousand, I 
have not yet put myself in a condition in which I could do 
good, because I have still five hundred thousand left. 

It is only when I possess nothing at all that I shall be able 
to do a little good ; such as, for instance, the poor prostitute 
did who nursed a sick woman and her child for three days. 
Yet this seemed to me to be but so little ! And 1 ventured 
to think of doing good ! One thing only was true, which I 
at first felt on seeing the hungry and cold people outside 
Liapin’s house, — that I was guilty of that ; and that to 
live as I did was impossible, utterly impossible. 'I'liis alone 
was true. But what w'as to be done? This question for any 
one interested, I will answer wdth full particulars, if God 
permit me, in the following chapters. 


XVI. 

It was difficult for me at last to own this ; but when I did 
get thus far, I was terrified at the delusion in which I had 
been living. I had been head over ears in the mud, and 1 
had been trying to drag others out of it. 

What is it that I really want? I want to do good ; I want 
to so contrive that no human beings should be hungry and 
cold, and that men may live as it is proper for them to live. 
I desire this ; and I see that in consequence of all sorts of 
violence, extortions, and various expedients in which I too 
take part, the working people are deprived of the necessaiy 
things, and the non- working community, to whom I also be- 
long, monopolize the labor of others. I see that this use of 
other people’s labor is distributed thus : that the more cun- 
ning and complicated the tricks employed by the man him- 
self (or by those from whom he has inherited his property), 
the more largely he employs the labors of other people, and 
the less he works himself. 

Fh’st come the millionnaires ; then the wealthy bankers, 


WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 


67 


merchants, land-owners, government functionaries : then the 
smaller bankers, merchants, government functionaries, land- 
owners, to whom I belong ; then shopmen, i)ublicans, usurers, 
police sergeants and inspectors, teachers, sacristans, clerks ; 
then, again, house-porters, footmen, coachmen, water-carters, 
cabmen, pedlers ; and then, last of all, the workmen, factory 
hands and peasants, the number of this class in proportion 
to the former being as ten to one. 

I see that the lives of nine- tenths of the working people 
essentially require exertion and labor like every other natural 
mode of living ; but that, in consequence of ihe tricks by 
which the necessaries of life are taken away from these 
people, their lives become eveiy year more ditticult, and more 
beset with privations ; and our lives, the lives of the non- 
laboring community, owing to the co-operation of sciences 
and arts, which have this very end in view, become every 
year more sumptuous, more attractive and secure. 

I see that in our days the life of a laboring man, and 
especially the lives of old people, women, and children, of the 
working-classes, are quite worn away by increased labor, not 
in proi)ortion to their nourishment, and that even the very 
first necessaries of life are not secured to them. 1 see that 
side b side with these the lives of the non-laboring class, to 
which I belong, ai'e each year more and more filled up with 
superrtuities and luxury, and are becoming continually more 
secure : the lives of the wealthy have attained to that degree 
of security of which in olden times men dreamed only in 
fairy-tales, — to the condition of the owner of the magic 
purse with an inexhaustible ruble ; ” to such a state when 
a man not only is entirely free from the law of labor for the 
sustenance of his life, but has the possibility of enjoying 
without working all the goods of this life, and of bequeath- 
ing to his children, or to any he chooses, this purse with the 

inexhaustible ruble.” 

I see that the productions of the labor of men pass over 
more than ever from the masses of laborers to those of non- 
laborers ; that the pyramid of the social structui*e is, as it 
were, being rebuilt, so that the stones of the foundation pass 
to the top, and the rapidity of this passage increases in a 
kind of geometric progression. 

I see that there is going on something like that which 
would have taken place in an ant-hill, if the society of ants 
should have lost the sense of the general law, and some of the 


68 


WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 


ants were to take the productions of labor out of the foun- 
dations and carry them to the top of the hill, making the 
foundation narrower and narrower, thus enlarging the top, 
and by that means making their fellows pass also from the 
foundation to the top. 

1 see that instead of an ideal, as exemplified in a laborious 
life, men have created the ideal of a purse with an ‘‘ inex- 
haustible ruble.” The rich, 1 among their number, an-ange 
this ruble for ourselves by various artifices ; and, in order to 
enjoy it, we locate ourselves in towns, in a place where noth- 
ing is produced, but every thing is swallowed up. 

The poor laboring man, swindled in order that the rich 
may have this magic ruble, follows them to town ; and there 
he also has recoui se to artifices, either arranging matters so 
that he ma}' work little and enjoy much, thus making the 
condition of workingmen still more heavy, or, not having 
attained to this state, he ruins himself, and drifts into the 
continually and rapidly increasing number of hungry and cold 
tenants of night-houses. 

I belong to the category of those men who, by the means 
of these various devices, take awa}^ from the working people 
the necessaries of life, and who thus create, as it were, for 
themselves, the inexhaustible fairy ruble, which tempts in 
turn these unfortunate ones. 

I wish to help men ; and therefore it is clear that, first of all, 
I ought on the one side to cease to plunder them as I am 
doing now, and on the other I must leave off tempting 
them. But I, by means of most complicated, cunning, and 
wicked contrivances practised for centuries, have made my- 
self the owner of this said ruble ; that is, have got into such a 
condition that 1 may, while never doing any thing myself, 
compel hundreds and thousands of people to work for me, 
and am really availing myself of this privileged monopoly, 
notwithstanding that all the time I imagine I pity these men, 
and wish to hel|) them. 

It is as if I were sitting on the neck of a man, and, having 
quite crushed him down, I compel him to carry me, and will 
not alight from off his shoulders, while I assure myself and 
others that I am very sorry for him, and wish to ease his con- 
dition by every means in my power except by getting off his 
back. 

Surely this is plain. If I wish to help the poor, that is, to 
make the poor cease to be poor, I ought not to create these 


WHAT MUST WE BO THEN? 


69 


same poor. Yet I give money according to my fancy to 
those who have gone astray, and take away tens of rubles 
from men who have not yet done so, thereby making them 
poor, and at the same time making them depraved. 

Tliis is very clear ; but at tirst it was for me exceedingly 
dillicult to understand, without any moditication or reserve 
which would justify my position. However, as soon as I 
came to see my own eri'or, all that formerly appeared strange, 
complicated, clouded, and inexplicable, became quite simple 
and intelligible to me ; and the line of conduct which ensued 
became both clear and satisfactory to my conscience by the 
following considerations. 

Who am I that desire to better men’s condition? I desire 
it; and yet I get up at noon, after having played at cards in 
a brilliantly lighted saloon during all the previous night, I, 
an enfeebled and effeminate man, who thus require the help 
and services of hundreds of people, I come to help them ! — 
these men who rise at five, sleep on boards, feed upon cab- 
bage and bread, understand how to plough, to reap, to put a 
handle to an axe, to write, to harness horses, to sew ; men 
who, by their strength and perseverance and self restiaint, 
are a hundred times stronger than I who come to help 
them. 

What could I have experienced in my intercourse wfith 
these people but shame? The weakest of them, — a drunk- 
ard, an inhabitant of Kzhanoff’s house, he whom they call 
“ the sluggard,” — is a hundred times more laborious than I ; 
his balance, so to say, — in other words, the relation between 
what he takes from men and what he gives them, — is a thou- 
sand times more to his ci-edit than mine, when I count what I 
receive from others, and what I give them in return. And to 
such men I go in order to assist them. 

I go to help the poor. But of the two, who is the poorer? 
No one is poorer than myself. I am a weak, good-for-noth- 
ing parasite, who can only exist in very peculiar conditions, 
who can live only when thousands of people labor to support 
this life which is not useful to any one. And I, this very 
caterpillar which eats u)) the leaves of a tree, wish to help 
the growth and the health of the tree, and to cure it. 

All my life is thus spent : I eat, talk, and listen ; then I 
eat, write, or read, which are only talking and listening in_ 
another form; I eat again, and play; then eat, talk, and 
listen, and finally eat and go to sleep : and thus every day is 


TO 


WHAT MUST }VE DO THEN f 


spent ; I neither do any thing else, nor understand how to 
do it. And in order that I may enjoy this life, it is necessary 
that from morning till night, house-porters, dvorniks, cooks, 
male and female, footmen, coachmen, and laundresses, should 
work, to say nothing of the manual labor necessary in order 
that the coachmen, cooks, footmen, and others, may have the 
instruments and the articles by which, and upon which, they 
work forme, — axes, casks, brushes, dishes, furniture, glasses, 
wax, shoe- black, kerosene, hay, wood, and food. And all 
these men and women work hard all the day, and every day, 
in order that I may talk, eat, and sleep. 

And I, this useless man, imagined that I was able to bene- 
fit others, they being the very same people who were serving 
me. That I did not benefit an}’ one, and that I was ashamed 
of myself, is not so astonishing as the fact that such a foolish 
idea ever came into my mind. 

The woman who nursed the sick old man helped him ; the 
peasant’s wife, who cut a slice of her bread earned by her 
from the very sowing of the corn that made it, helped the 
hungry one ; Semyon, who gave three kopeks which he had 
earned, assisted the })ilgrim, because these three kopeks 
really represented his labor ; but I had served nobody, 
worked for no one, and knew very well that my money did 
not represent my labor. And so I felt that in money, or in 
money’s worth, and in the possession of it, there was some- 
thing wrong and evil ; that the money itself, and the fact of 
my having it, was one of the chief causes of those evils 
which I had seen before me, and I asked myself, What is 
money ? 


XVII. 


IVIoNEY ! What, then, is money? 

It is answered, money represents labor. I meet educated 
peo[)le who even assert that money represents labor per- 
formed by those who possess it. I confess that I myself 
formerly shared this 0[)inion, although I did not very clearly 
understand it. But now it became necessary for me to learn 
thoroughly what money was. 

In order to do so, I addressed myself to science. Science 
says that money in itself is neither unjust nor pernicious ; 
that money is the natural result of the conditions of social 
life, and is indispensable, first, for convenience of ex- 


WUAT MUST WE DO THEN? 71 

change ; secondly, as a measure of value ; thirdly, for 
saving; and fourthly, for payments. 

The evident fact that when I have in my pocket three 
rubles to spare, which I am not in need of, 1 have only to 
whistle, and in every civilized town I obtain a hundred peo- 
ple read}' for these three rubles, to do the worst, most dis- 
gusting, and humiliating act I require ; and this comes not 
from money, but from the very complicated conditions of 
the economical life of nations. 

The dominion of one man over others comes not from 
money, but from the circumstance that a workingman does 
not receive the full value of his labor; and the fact that he 
does not get the full value of his labor, depends upon the 
nature of capital, rent, and wages, and upon complicated 
connections between them and production itself, and between 
the distribution and consumption of wealth. 

In plain language, it means that people who have money 
may twist around their finger those who have none. Ihit 
science says that this is an illusion ; that in every kind of 
production three factors take part, — land, savings of labor 
(capital), and laboi ; and that the dominion of the few 
over the many, proceeds from the various connections be- 
tween these factors of production, — because the two first 
factors, land and capital, are not in the hands of working 
people : from tliis fact, and from the various combinations 
resulting therefrom, proceeds this domination. 

Whence comes the great power of money which strikes us 
all with a sense of its injustice and cruelly? Why is one 
man by the means of money to have dominion over others? 
Science says. It comes from the division of the agents of 
production, and from the consequent complicated combina- 
tions which oppress the workingman. 

This answer has always appeared to me to be strange, not 
only because it leaves one part of the question unnoticed, 
namely, the signification of money, but also because of the 
division of the factors of production, which to an unin- 
formed man will always appear artificial, and not in accord- 
ance with reality. It is asserted that in every production 
three agents come into operation, — land, capital, and labor; 
and along with this division it is understood that property 
(or its value in mono}') is naturally divided among those who 
ix>s<ess one of these agents; thus, rent, — the value of the 
ground, — belongs to the land-owner; interest to the capi- 
talist } and labor to the workingman. 


72 


WUAT MUST WE DO THEN? 


Is it really so? 

First, is it true that in every production three agencies 
operate? Now, while 1 am writing this, around me proceeds 
the production of hay. Of what is this production com- 
posed? I am told, of the land which i)roduces the grass, of 
capital, — scythes, rakes, pitch-forks, carts, — which are 
necessary for the housing of hay, and of labor. But I see 
that this is not true. Besides the land, there is the sun and 
rain ; besides social order, which has been keei)ing these 
meadows from damage caused b^’ letting stray cattle graze 
upon them, the prudence of workmen, their knowledge of 
language, and many other agencies of production, which, for 
some unknown reason, are not taken into consideration by 
political economy. 

The power of the sun is as necessary as the land. I may 
instance the position of men in which (as, for instance, in a 
town) some of them assume the right to keep out the sun 
from others by means of walls or trees. Why, then, is this 
sun not included among the agents of production? 

Rain is another means as necessary as the ground itself. 
The air too. I can picture to myself the position of men 
without water and pure air, because other men assume to 
themselves the right to monopolize these, which are essentially 
necessary to all. Public security is likewise a necessary 
element ; food and dress for workmen are similar means in 
production ; this last is even recognized by some economists. 
Education, the knowledge of language which creates the 
possibility of reasonable woi-k, is likewise an agent. 1 could 
fill a volume by enumerating such combinations, unnoticed 
by science. 

Why, then, are three only to be chosen and laid as a foun- 
dation for the science of political economy? Why are the 
rays of the sun, rain, food, knowledge, not equall}^ recog- 
nized? Why only the land, the instruments of labor, and 
the labor itself? Simply because the right of men to enjoy 
the rays of the sun, rain, food, speech, and audience, are 
challenged only on rare occasions ; but the use of land, and 
of the instruments of labor, are constantly challenged in 
society. 

This is the true foundation for it ; and the division of 
these agents for production, into three, is quite arbitrary, 
and is not involved in the nature of things. But it may 
perhaps be urged, that this division is so suitable to man, that, 


WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 73 

wherever economical relationships form themselves, there 
these appear at once and alone. 

Let us see whether it is really so. First of all, I look at 
what is around me, — at Russian colonists, of whom millions 
have for long existed. They come to a land, settle themselves 
on it, and begin to labor ; and it does not enter into the mind 
of any one of them, that a man who does not use the land 
could have any claim to it, and the land does not assert any 
rights of its own ; on the contraiy, the colonists conscien- 
tiously recognize the communism of the land, and that it is 
right for every one of them to plough and to mow wherever 
he likes. 

For cultivation, for gardening, for building houses, the 
colonists obtain various implements of labor : nor does it 
enter the mind of any one of them, that these instruments 
of labor may bring profit in themselves, and the capital does 
not assert any rights of its own ; but, on the contrary, the 
colonists conscientiously recognize that all interest for tools, 
or borrowed corn or capital, is unjust. 

They work upon a free land, labor with their own tools, or 
with those borrowed without interest, each for himself, or all 
together, for common business ; and in such a communit}^, it 
is impossible to prove either the existence of rent or interest 
accruing from capital, or remunei-ation for labor. 

Speaking of such a community, I am not indulging my 
fancy, but am describing what has always taken place, not 
only among primitive Russian colonists, but among so-called 
intellectual men, who are not few, and who have settled in 
Russia and in America. 

I am describing what appears to every one to be natural 
and reasonable. Men settle on land, and each undertakes to 
do such business as suits him ; and each, having earned what 
is necessaiy, does his own work. 

And when these men find it more convenient to labor 
together, they form a workmen’s association ; but neither in 
separate households, nor in associations, will there appear 
separate agents of production, till men artificially and 
forcibly divide them. But there will be labor, and the ne- 
cessary conditions of labor, — the sun wliich warms all, the 
air which men breathe, water which they drink, land on 
which they labor, clothes on the body, food in the stomach, 
stakes, shovels, ploughs, machines, with which men work ; 
and it is evident that neither the rays of the sun, nor the 


74 


WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 


clothes on the bocl}^ nor the stakes with which the man 
labors, nor the spade, nor the plough, nor the machine with 
which he works in the workmen’s association, can belong to 
any one else but to those who enjoy the rays of the sun, 
breathe the air, drink the water, eat the bread, clothe their 
bodies, and labor with the spade or with the machine, because 
all this is necessary only for those who make use of it. And 
when men act thus, we see that they act reasonably. 

Therefore, observing the economical conditions which are 
created among men, 1 do not see that the division into three 
is natural. 1 see, on the contrary, that it is neither natural 
nor reasonable. But perhaps the setting apart of these three 
does not take place in primitive societies of men ; but that 
when the population increases, and cultivation begins to 
develop, it is unavoidable, and we cannot but recognize the 
fact that this division has taken place in European society. 
Let us see whether it is really so. 

We are told that in European society this division of agen- 
cies has taken place ; that is, that one man possesses land, 
another possesses instruments of labor, and the third are 
without land and instruments. We have grown so accus- 
tomed to this assertion that we are no longer struck by the 
strangeness of it. 

If we will but reflect upon this expression, we cannot help 
seeing, not only the injustice, but even the a])surdity, of it. 
Under the idea of a laboring man are included the laud upon 
which he lives, and the tools with which he works. If he 
were not living on the land, and had no tools, he would not 
be a laboring man. There has never been, and can never be, 
such a man without land and without tools, without scythe, 
cart, and horse ; there cannot be a bootmaker without a 
house for his work standing upon ground, without water, air, 
and tools with which he works. 

If a laborer has no land, horse, or scythe, and a boot- 
maker is without a house, water, or awl, then it means that 
some one has driven him from the ground, or taken it away 
from him, or cheated him out of his scythe, cart, horse, or 
awl ; but it does not at all mean that there can be a country 
laborer without a scythe, or a bootmaker without tools. 

So you cannot imagine a fisherman remaining on dvy land 
without fishing implements, unless he has been driven away 
from the water by some one who has taken away from him 
his necessaiy implements for fishing ; so also we cannot pic- 


WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 


75 


ture to ourselves a workman without the ground upon which 
he lives, and without tools for his trade, unless somebody 
has driven him from the former, or robbed him of the latter. 

There may be such men, hunted from one [)lace to another, 
and such who, having been I’obbed, are compelled pei force 
to work for another man, and do things unnecessary tor 
themselves ; but this does not mean that such is the nature of 
production, and therefore the land and the tools cannot be 
considered as separate agents in the work. 

But if we are to consider as the agents of production all 
that is claimed by other people, and what a workingman 
may be deprived of by the violence of others, why not count 
among them the claim upon the person of a slave? Why not 
count claims on the rain and the ra3's of the sun? We might 
meet with a man who would build a wall and thus keep the 
sun from his neighbor ; another ma}’ come who will turn the 
course of a river into his own pond, and by that means con- 
taminate its water ; or an individual who would claim a fellow- 
man as his own property ; but none of these claims, al- 
though they may be enforced by violence, can be recognized 
as a foundation for calculating the agents of production ; and 
therefore it is as equally unjust to consider the exclusive en- 
joyment of the rays of the sun, or of the air or water, cr the 
persons of others, as separate agents in production. 

There may be men who will assert their rights to the land 
and to the tools of a workingman, as there were men who 
assei'ted their I'ights to the persons of others, and as there 
may be men who would assert their lights to the exclusive 
use of the ra3’S of the sun, or to the use of water and air; 
there ma3’ be men who would drive away a workingman 
from place to place, taking from him by force the pi-oducts 
of his labor as they are produced, and the very instruments 
for its production, who might compel him to work, not for 
himself, but for his master, as occurs in the factories; — all 
this is possible : but a workingman without land and tools is 
still an impossibility, just as there does not exist a man who 
would willingly become the propeity of another, notwith- 
standing that men have asserted their right to him for many 
generations. 

Just as a claim on the person of another man could not 
deprive a slave of his innate right to seek his own welfare, 
and not that of his master ; so, too, the claim for the ex- 
clusive possession of the land and tools of others cannot 


76 


WHAT MUST WE J)0 THEN f 


deprive the workingman of liis riglit, like that of every man, 
to live upon the land, and to work with his own tools, or 
those of his community, as he considers most useful for 
himself. 

All that science can say in examining the present econom- 
ical question, is this: that in Europe there exist claims of 
some men to the land and the tools of workingmen, in con- 
sequence of which, for some of these workingmen (but by 
no means for all of them), the proper conditions of produc- 
tion are violated, so that they are deprived of land and 
implements of labor, and are compelled to work with the 
tools of others ; but by no means is it established that this 
casual violation of the law of production is that very law 
itself. 

In saying that this isolation of the agents of produce is 
the fundamental law of production, the economist is doing 
the very thing a zoologist would do, who, upon seeing a great 
many siskins, with their wings cut, and kept in little cages, 
drawing water-barrels out of an imaginary well, would assert 
this was the most essential condition for the life of birds, 
and that tlieir life is composed of these conditions. 

However many siskins there may be kept in pasteboard 
houses with their wings cut, a zoologist cannot acknowledge 
these houses to be the natural home of the birds. However 
great the number of working-peo[)le there may be driven from 
place to place, and deprived of their productions as well as 
the tools for their labor, tlie natural right of man to live 
upon the land, and to work with his own tools, is that which 
he needs, and it will remain so forever. 

We have some who lay claim to the land and to the tools 
of workingmen, just as there existed in former ages the 
claim of some men over the persons of others ; but there may 
be no real division of men into lords and slaves as was an- 
ciently established, nor can there exist any division in the 
agents of production, in land and capital, as economists want 
to establish at present. 

These very unlawful claims of some men over the liberty 
of others, science calls the natural condition of production. 
Instead of taking its fundamental princi[)les from the natural 
properties of human societies, science took them from a par- 
ticular case ; and, desiring to justify this case, it recognized 
the right of some men to the land by which other men earned 
their living, and to tiie tools with which other meu worked ; 


WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 


77 


in other words, it recognized as a right that which had never 
existed, and cannot exist, and which is in itself a contradic- 
tion, because the claim of the land-owner to the land on 
which he does not labor, is in essence nothing more than the 
riglit to use the land which he does not use ; the claim on the 
tools of others is nothing more than a man assuming a right 
to work with im[)lements with which he does not work. 

Science, by isolating the agents of production, declares 
that the natural condition of a workingman — that is, of a 
man in the true sense of the word — is that unnatural condition 
in which he exists at present, as in ancient times, by the 
division of men into citizens and slaves, when it was asserted 
that the unnatural condition of slavery was the natural con- 
dition of life. 

This very division accepted by science only in order to 
justify the existing injustice, and the adjudging this division 
to be the foundation of all its inquiries, has for its result 
that science vainly tries to give some explanation of existing 
phenomena ; and denying the clearest and plainest answers 
to the questions that arise, gives answers which have no 
meaning in them at all. 

The question of economical science is this : What is the 
reason of the fact that some men by means of money acquire 
an imaginary right to the land and capital, and may make 
slaves of those men who have no money? The answer whi(*h 
presents itself to common sense would be, that it is the result 
of money, the nature of which is to enslave men. 

But science denies this, and says. This arises, not from 
the nature of money, but from the fact that some men have 
land and capital, and others have neither. We ask why per- 
sons who possess laiul and capital oppress such as possess 
neither? and we are answered. Because they do possess land 
and capital. 

But this is just what we are inquiring about. Is not 
deprivation of land and tools enforced slavery? Life ceases 
not to i)ut this essential question : and even science herself 
notices it, and tries to answer it, but does not succeed in 
doing so ; proceeding from her own fundamental principles, 
she only turns herself round, as in a magic circle. 

In order to give itself a satisfactory answer to the above 
'question, science has first of all to deny that wrong division 
of the agents of production, to cease to acknowledge the 
.result of the phenomena as being the cause of them ; and she 


78 


WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 


has to seek, first, the more obvious, and then the remoter, 
causes of those phenomena which make up the whole. 

Science must answer the question. What is the reason 
that some men are deprived of land and tools while others 
possess both? or, Why is it that land and tools are taken 
away from persons who labor upon the land, and work with 
the tools ? 

As soon as science puts this question to herself, she will 
at once get new ideas which will transform all the previous 
ideas of that sham science, which has been moving in an 
unalterable circle of iiropositions, as, for instance, the mis- 
erable condition of working-people proceeding from the fact 
that it is miserable. For simple-minded persons, it must 
seem unquestionable that the obvious reason of the oppres- 
sion of some men by others is this money. But science, 
denying this, says that money is only a medium of exchange, 
which has notliiug in common with oppression or slavery. 

Let us see whether it is so or not. 


XVIII. 

Whence comes money? How is it that a nation always 
has money, and under what circumstances is it that a nation 
need not use money? There is a small tribe in Africa, and 
one in Australia, who live as lived the ISknepies and the 
Drevlyans in olden times. 

These tribes lived and ploughed, bred cattle, and culti- 
vated gardens. We became acquainted with them only at 
the dawn of history. And history begins with recording the 
fact that some invaders appear on tlie stage. And invaders 
always do the same thing : they take away from the abori- 
gines every thing they can take, — cattle, corn, and stuffs; 
even make prisoners, male and female, and carry them away. 

After some years the invaders appear again ; but the peo- 
ple have not got over the consequences of their misfortune, 
and there is scarcely any thing to take from them, so tiie 
invaders invent another and better means of makino- use of 
their victims. 

These means are very simple, and naturally present them- 
selves to the mind of every man. The Jin^t is personal 
slavery. There is a drawback to this, seeing the enforcers of 
it have to put every thing into working order, and feed all the 


WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 


79 


slaves : hence, naturally, there appears the second. Tlie peo- 
ple are left on their own land, which becomes the recognized 
[property of the inv'adei-s, who portion it out among the lead- 
ing military men, in order that by means of these men they 
may utilize the labor of the people. 

But this, too, has its drawback. It is not convenient to 
these ollicers to have an oversight over all the productions of 
the conquered people, and thus the tJiird means is introduced, 
which is as primitive as the two former ones ; and this is the 
levying of a certain obligatory tax which the conquered have 
to i)a3’ at stated periods. 

The object of a conquest is to take from the conquered as 
much as possible of the products of their labor. Jt is 
evident, that, in order to do this, the conquerors must take 
such articles as are the most valuable to the conquered, and 
which at the same time are not cumbersome, and are con- 
venient for keeping, — skins of animals and gold. 

And the conqueror lays upon tlie family or the tribe a tax 
in these skins or gold, which is to be paid at fixed times ; and 
by means of this tribute, he utilizes the labor of the con- 
quered people in tlie most convenient way. 

Almost all the skins and all the gold are taken away from 
their original possessors, and tlierefore these are compelled 
to sell all they have amongst themselves to obtain gold and 
skins for their masters ; that is, they have to sell their prop- 
erty and their labor. 

This veiy thing happened in ancient times, in the Middle 
Ages, and occurs now too. In the ancient world, when the 
subjugation of one people by another was frequent, and 
owing to the equality of men not being acknowledged, per- 
sonal slav'ery was the most widely spread means for compel- 
ling the service of others, and was the centre of gravity in 
this compulsion. In the Middle Ages, feudalism — land- 
ownershi[) and the servitude connected with it — partly takes 
the i)lace of jicrsonal slavery, and the centre of compulsion is 
transferred from persons to land: in modern times, since 
the discovery of America, the develoiiment of commerce, 
and the influx of gold, which is accepted as a universal 
medium of exchange, -the tribute in money with the increase 
of the state power becomes the chief instrument for enslav- 
ing men, anil upon it are now built all economical relation- 
ships. 

In “ The Literary Miscellany ” is printed an article by Pro- 


80 


WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 


fessor Yanjoul, in which he describes the recent history of the 
Fiji Islands. If I were trying to find tlie most pointed illus- 
tration of how in our time the forcible requirement of money 
became the chief instrument of the enslaving of some men 
by others, I could not imagine any thing more striking and 
convincing than this trustworthy liistory, — history based 
upon documents of facts, which are of recent occurrence. 

In the South-Sea Islands in Polynesia lives a race called 
Fiji. The group on which they live, says Professor 
Yanjoul, is comi)osed of small isles, which all together 
occupy a space of about forty thousand sipiare miles. Only 
half of these islands are inhabited by one hundred and fifty 
thousand natives, and fifteen hundred white men. The 
natives had been reclaimed from a savage state a long 
time ago, and are distinguished among other natives of 
Polynesia by their intellectual capacities ; and they appear 
to be a nation capable of laboi’ and develoi)ment, which they 
have also proved by the fact that in a short period of time 
they became good workmen and breeders of cattle. 

The inhabitants were well-to-do, but in the year 1859 
the condition of this new state became desperate : the na- 
tives of Fiji, and their representative, Kokab, were in need 
of money. The money, forty-five thousand dollars, was 
wanted by the Government of Fiji for the payment of a con- 
tribution or indemnification, which was demanded of them 
by the United States of America for violence done by Fijis 
to some citizens of the American Republic. 

For this purpose the Americans sent a squadron, which 
unexpectedly took possession of some of the best islands, 
under the pretext that they would hold them as a guaranty, 
and threatened to bombard and ruin the towns if the indem- 
nification were not jiaid over, upon a certain date, to the 
re[)resentatives of America. 

The Americans were among the first colonists who, to- 
gether with missionaries, came to the Fiji Islands. They 
chose and (under one pretext or another) took possession 
of the best pieces of land on the islands, and established 
there cotton and coffee plantations. They hired whole 
crowds of natives, binding them by -contracts unknown to 
this half-civilized race ; or acted through special contractors 
or purveyors of human mercliaiidise. 

^lisunderstandings between such ma^^ter-planters and the 
natives, whom they considered almost as slaves, were uu- 


WHAT MUST WE BO THEN? 


81 


avoidable : it was some of these quarrels which served as a 
pretext for the American indemnification. 

Notwitlistanding their prosperity the Fijis had preserved 
almost up to the present time the forms of so-called natural 
economy, whicli existed in Europe during the Middle Ages: 
money was scareel}’ in circulation among the natives, and 
their trade had almost exclusively the character of barter ; 
— one merchandise was exchanged for another, and a few 
social taxes and those of the state were taken out in produc- 
tions. What were the Fiji-Islanders with their King Kokab 
to do when the Americans required from them forty-five 
thousand dollars under the most terrible threat in the event 
of non-payment? To the Fijis the very figures appeared to 
be something inconceivable, to say nothing of the money 
itself, which they had never seen in such large quantities. 
After deliberating with other chiefs, Kokab made up his 
mind to apply to the Queen of England, at first asking her 
to take the islands under her protection, and then plainly 
under her rule. 

But the Plnglish regarded this request circumspectly, and 
were in no hurry to assist the half-savage monarch out of his 
difficulty, instead of giving a direct answer, they sent, in 
18G0, special commissioners to make inquiries al)ont the Fiji- 
Islanders, in order to be able to deci :le whether it was worth 
while to annex them to the British Possessions, and to lay 
out money to satisfy the American claims. 

INIeanwhile the American Government continued to insist 
upon i)ayment, and held as a pledge in their de facto domin- 
ion some of the best parts, and, having looked closely into 
the national wealth, raised their former claim to ninety thou- 
sand dollars, and threatened to increase it still if Kokab did 
not pay at once. 

Being thus pushed on every side, the poor king, unac- 
quainted with European means of credit accommodation, in 
accordance with the advice of European colonists, began to 
try to raise money in Melbourne, among the merchants, cost 
what it might, if even he should be obliged to yield up all his 
kingdom into private hands. 

And so in Melbourne, in consequence of his application, a 
commercial society was formed. This joint-stock company, 
which took the name of the Polynesian Company, formed 
with the chiefs of the Fiji-Islanders a ti’eaty upon terms the 
most advantageous to itself. It took upon itself the debt to 


82 


WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 


the American Government, and pledged itself to pay it by 
several instalments ; for this tlie com[)any received, accord- 
ing to the first treaty, one, and then two Imndred thousand 
acres of the best land, selected l)y themselves ; the perpetual 
immunity from all taxes and dues for all its factories, opera- 
tions, and colonies, and tlie exclusive right for a long period 
to establish in the Fiji Islands issuing-banks, with the privi- 
lege of printing unlimited number of notes. 

Since this treaty, definitively concluded in the year 1868, 
there appeared in the Pdji Islands, along with their local 
government with Kokab at the head, another powerful 
authority, — a commercial factory, with large estates over all 
the islands, exercising a decided influence upon the govern- 
ment. 

Up to this time the wants of the government of Kokab had 
been satisfied with tlie payment in natural productions, which 
consisted of various duties and a small custom tax on goods 
imported. Witli the conclusion of the treuty, and the form- 
ing of the influential Polynesian Companj-, the king’s financial 
circumstances had changed. 

A considerable part of the best land in his dominion had 
passed into the hands of the company, his income from the 
land therefore diminished ; on the other hand, the income 
from the custom taxes also diminished, because the company 
obtained for itself an import and export of all kinds of goods 
free of custom duties. 

The natives — ninety-nine percent of all the population 
— had always been bad payers of custom duties, because 
they scarcely bought any of the European productions, ex- 
cept some stuffs and hardware ; and now, from the freeing 
from custom duties, along with the Polynesian Company, of 
many well-to-do Europeans, the income of King Kokab was 
reduced to nil, and he was obliged to take steps to resusci- 
tate it if possible. 

He began to consult his white friends as to how he was to 
avert the calamity, and they advised him to create the first 
direct tax in the country ; and, in order, I suppose, to have 
less trouble about it, in money. The tax was established in 
the form of a general poll-tax, amounting to one pound for 
every man, and to four shillings for every woman, throughout 
the islands. 

As we have already said, on the Fiji Islands there still ex- 
ist a natural economy and a trade by barter. Very few 


WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 


83 


natives possess money. Their wealth consists chiefly of 
various raw productions and cattle; whilst the new tax re- 
quired the possession in a family of considerable sums of 
money at fixed times. 

Up to that date a native had not been accustomed to 
any individual burden in the interests of his government, 
except personal obligations ; all the taxes which had to be 
paid, were paid by the community or village to which he be- 
longed, and from the common fields from which he received 
his principal income. 

One alternative was left to him, — to try to raise money 
from the European colonists ; that is, to address himself 
either to the merchant or to the planter. 

To the first he was obliged to sell his productions on the 
merchant’s own terms, because the tax-collector required 
money at a certain fixed date, or he had even to raise money 
by selling his expected production, which enabled the mer- 
chant to take iniquitous interest. Or he had to address him- 
self to the planter, and sell him his labor ; that is, to become 
his workman : but the wages on the Fiji Islands were very 
low, owing, I suppose, to the exceptionally great offer of 
services. 

They did not exceed one shilling per week for a grown-up 
man, or two pounds twelve shillings a year; and therefore, 
in order merely to get the money necessary for the payment 
for himself, not to speak of his family, a Fiji had to leave 
his house, his famil3^ and liis own land, and often go far 
away to another island, and there enslave himself to tlie 
planter for at least half a year in order to get the one pound 
necessary for the payment of the new tax ; and as for the 
payment of taxes for his whole family, he had to look for it 
to some other means. 

We can understand what was the result of such a state. 
Fi'om a hundred and fifty thousand of his subjects, Kokab 
collected in all, six thousand pounds ; and now there began 
a forcible extortion of taxes unknown till then, and a series 
of violent measures. 

The local administration, which had been formerly incor- 
ruptible, soon made common cause with the European 
planters, who began to have their own way with the country. 
For non-payment, thj Pdjis were summoned to the court and 
were sentenced, not only to pay the expenses, but also to be 
sent to prison for nv.t less than half a year. This prison 


84 


WHAT MUST WE DO THEN f 


was really the plantations of the first white man who chose 
to pay the tax-money and the legal expenses of the con- 
demned. 

Thus the white settlers received cheap labor to any amount. 
First this compulsory labor was fixed at not longer than half 
a year; but afterwards the bribed judges found it possibledo 
pass sentence for eighteen mouths, and then to renew the 
sentence. 

Very quickly, in the course of a few years, the picture of 
the social condition of the inhabitants of Fiji was quite 
changed. 

Whole districts, formerly flourishing, lost half of their 
population, and were greatly inq)overished. All the male 
population, except the old and infirm, was working away 
from their homes for European planters, in order to get 
money necessaiy for the payment of taxes, or in consequence 
of the law court. The women on the Fiji Islands had scarcely 
ever worked in the fields ; tlieiefore, in the absence of the 
men, all farming was neglected, and went to ruin. In the 
course of a few years, half of the population of Fiji was 
transformed into the slaves of the colonists. 

In order to ease their situation, the Fiji-Islanders again 
apjiealed to Phigland. A new iietition was got up, sub- 
scribed by a great many eminent persons and cliiefs, praying 
to be annexed to England ; and this was handed to the British 
consul. INIean while, England, thanks to her learned expedi- 
tion, had time not only to investigate the affairs of the islands, 
but even to survey them, and duly to appreciate the nalural 
riches of this fine corner of the globe. 

Owing to all these circumstances, the negotiations this 
time were crowned with full success; and in 1874, to the 
great dissatisfaction of the American planters, England 
officially took possession of the Fiji Islands, and added them 
to its colonies. Kokab died, and his heirs had a small 
pension assigned to them. 

The administration of the islands was intrusted to Sir 
Hercules Robinson, the governor of New South Wales. In 
the first year of its annexation to England, the Fiji-Islanders 
had not had an}' self-government, but were under the direc- 
tion of Sir Hercules Robinson, who had appointed an admin- 
istrator for them. Taking the islands* into their hands, the 
English Government had to undertake the ditficult task of 
gratifying various expectations raised by them. 


WUAT MUST WE JDO THEN? 


85 


The natives, of course, first of all expected the abolition 
of the liated poll-tax ; one part of the white colonists (the 
Americans) looked with suspicion upon the British rule ; and 
another part (those of English origin) expected all kinds of 
coulirinations of their i)owerover the natives, — permission to 
enclose the land, and so on. The Phigiish Government, how- 
ever, proved itself equal to the task ; and its first act was 
to abolish foi-ever the poll-tax, which had created the slavery 
of the natives in the interest of a few colonists. But here, 
Sir Hercules Robinson had at once to face a difficult dilemma. 

It was necessary to abolish the poll-tax, which had made 
the Fijis seek help of the English Government; but, at the 
same time, according to English colonial policy, the colonies 
had to support themselves ; they had to find their own means 
for covering the expenses of the government. With the 
abolition of the poll-tax, all the incomes of the Fijis (from 
custom duties) did not amount to more than six thousand 
pounds, while the government expenses required at least 
seventy thousand a year. 

And now Sir Hercules Robinson, having abolished the 
money tax, thought of a labor tax ; but it did not yield the 
sum necessary for feeding him and his assistants. Matters did 
not mend until a new' governor had been appointed, — Gordon, 
— who, in order to get out of the inhabitants the money 
necessary for keeping him and his functionaries, resolved 
not to demand money until it had come sufficiently into 
general circulation on the islands, but to take from the 
natives their productions, and to sell them himself. 

This tragical episode in the lives of the Fijis is the clearest 
and best proof of what is the true meaning of money in our 
time. 

In this case every thing is illustrated, the first funda- 
mental condition of slavery, — the gun, threats, murders, 
and plunder, and lastly, money, the means of subjugation, 
which has taken the place of all other. That which in an 
historical sketch of economical development has to be inves- 
tigated dui'ing centuries, here when all the forms of monetary 
violence have fully developed themselves, had been concen- 
trated into a space of ten years. The drama begins thus : 
the American Government sends ships with loaded guns to 
the shores of the islands, whose inhabitants they w'ant 
to enslave. The pretext of this threat is monetary ; but the 
beginning of the tragedy is the levelling of guns against all the 


86 


WnAT MUST WE BO THEN f 


inhabitants, — wives, children, old people, andinen, — though 
they have not committed any crime. Your money or your 
life,” — forty-five thousand dollars, then ninety thousand or 
slaughter. But ninety thousand are not to be had. And 
now begins the second act : it is necessary to forego a 
slaughter, which would be bloody, terrible, and concentrated, 
in a short period ; it is necessary to substitute a suffering 
less perceptible which can be laid upon all, and will last 
longer; and the natives with their representative seek to 
substitute for slaughter a slavery of money. They borrow 
money, and the planned means of enslaving men by money 
at once begins to operate like a disciplined arm3^ In five 
years the thing is done, — men have not only lost their right 
to utilize their own laud and their property, but also tlieir 
libert^g — they have become slaves. Here begins act three. 
The situation is too painful ; and the unfortunate ones are 
told they may change their master, and become slaves of 
another : there is not a thought about freedom from the 
slavery brought about b}’ the means of mone3\ And the 
people call for another master, to whom thev give themselves 
up, asking him to improve their condition. The English 
come and see that dominion over these islands gives them 
the possibility of feeding their already too greatly multiplied 
parasites, and the English Government takes possession 
of these islands and their inhal)itants ; but it does not take 
them in the form of pei’sonal slaves ; it does not take even 
the land, nor distribute it among its assistants. 

These old ways are not necessary now : only one thing is 
necessary, — taxes which must be large enough on the one 
hand to prevent the workingmen from freeing themselves 
from virtual slavery, and on the other hand to feed luxuri- 
ously a great number of parasites. The inhabitants must 
pay seventy thousand pounds sterling, — that is the funda- 
mental condition upon which P^ngland consents to free the 
Pdjis from the American despotism, and this is just what was 
wanting for the final enslaving of the inhabitants. But it 
turned out that the Fiji-Islanders cannot under an}" circum- 
stances pay these seventy thousand pounds in their present 
state. The claim is too great. 

The Iiinglish temporarily modify it, and take a part of it 
out in natural productions in order that in time, Avhen money 
has come into circulation, they may receive the full sum. 
They do not behave like the former company, whose conduct 


WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 


87 


we may liken to the first coming of savage invaders into an 
uncivilized land, when they want only to take as much as 
possible and then decamp : but England behaves like a more 
clear-sighted enslaver ; she does not kill at one blow the 
goose with the golden eggs, but feeds her in order that she 
may continue to lay them. England at first relaxes the reins 
for her own interest that she may hold them forever after- 
wards, anti so has brought the Fiji-Islauders into that state 
of permanent monetary thraldom in wdiich all civilized 
European people now are, and from which their chance of 
escape is not apparent. 

This phenomena repeats itself in America, in China, in 
Central Asia ; and it is the same in the history of the con- 
quest of all nations. 

Money is an inoffensive means of exchange when it is not 
collected with violence, or when loaded guns are not directed 
from the seashore against the defenceless inhabitants. As 
soon as it is taken by force of arms, the same thing must 
unavoidably take place which occurred on the Fiji Islands, 
and has always and everywhere repeated itself. 

Such men as consider it their lawful right to utilize the 
labor of others, and who have the means of doing so, will 
achieve this by means of forcibly demanding such sums of 
money as will compel the oppressed to become the slaves 
of the oppressors. 

And moreover, that will happen which occurred between 
the Ifnglish and the Fijis, — the extortioners will always, in 
their demand for money, rather exceed the limit to which the 
amount of the sum required must rise in order that the 
enslaving may take place more effectually. They will 
respect this limit only while they have moral sense and suffi- 
cient money for themselves ; they will overstep it when they 
lose their moral sense or require funds. 

As for governments, they will always exceed this limit, — 
first, because for a government there exists no moral sense 
of justice; and secondly, because, as we all know, every 
government is in the greatest want of money, caused by 
wars and the necessity of giving gratuities to their allies. 
All governments are insolvent, and cannot hel)) following a 
maxim exi)ressed by a Russian statesrnan of the eighteenth 
century, — that the peasant must be sheared of his wool lest 
it slioidd grow too long. All governments are hopelessly in 
debt, and this debt on an average (not taking in considera- 


88 


WUAT MUST WE DO THEN? 


tioii its occasional diminution in England and America) is 
growing at a terrible rate. So also gi'ow the budgets ; that 
is, the necessity of struggling with other extortioners, and of 
giving presents to those who assist in extortion. 

Wages do not increase, not because of the law of rent, 
but because taxes collected with violence exist, in order 
to take away from men their sni)ertluities, so that they may 
be compelled to sell their labor to satisfy them, the utilizing 
of their labor being the aim of raising them. 

And their labor can only be utilized when on a general 
average the taxes required are more than the working-peo- 
ple are able to give without depriving themselves of all 
means of subsistence. The rising of wages would [)ut an 
end to the possibility of enslaving ; and therefore, as long 
as violence exists, wages can never rise. This simple and 
])lain mode of action In’ some men towards others, political 
economists term the iron laio ; the instrument by which such 
action is performed, they call a medium of exchange ; and 
money is this inoffensive medium of exchange necessary 
for men in their transactions with each other. 

Why is it, then, that, whenever tliere is no violent demand 
for money taxes, there has never been, and can never be, 
money in its true signilication ; but, as among the Fiji- 
Islanders, the Phoenicians, the Kirghis, and generally among 
men who do not pay taxes, as among the Africans, there is 
either a direct exchange of produce or arbitrary standards of 
value, as sheep, hides, skins, and shells? 

A definite kind of money, whatever it may be, will always 
become, not a means of exchange, but a means of ransom- 
ing from violence ; and it begins to circulate among men 
only when a definite standard is compulsorily required from 
all. 

It is only then that eveiybody equally wants it, and only 
then it receives any value. 

Further, it is not the thing that is most convenient for 
exchange that receives any value, but that which is re- 
quired by the government. If gold is demanded, gold 
becomes valuable: if knuckle-bones were demanded, they, 
too, would become valuable. If it were not so, why, then, 
has the issue of this means of exchange always been the 
prerogative of the government? The Fiji-Islanders, for 
instance, have-nrranged among themselves their own means 
of exchange ; well, then, let them be free to exchange what 


WHAT MUST WE BO THEN 9 


89 


and how they like, and yon, men possessing power, or the 
means of violence, do not interfere with this exchange. 
But instead yon coin money, not allowing any one else to 
do so ; or, as is the case with ns, yon merely print some 
notes, engraving upon them the heads of the tsars, sign 
them with a particular signature, and threaten to punish 
every falsification of them, distribute this money to your 
assistants, and require everybody to give yon such money 
or such notes with such signatures, and so many of them 
that a workingman must give away all his labor in order 
to get these veiy notes or coins ; and then yon want to 
convince ns that this money is necessary for us as a means 
of exchange. 

All men are free, and none of them oppresses the others 
by keeping them in slavery ; but there exist only money 
in society and an iron law, in consequence of which rent 
increases, and wages diminish down to a minimum. That 
half (nay, more than half) of the llnssian peasants, in order 
to pay direct and indirect taxes and land taxes, enslave them- 
selves to labor for the land-owners, or for mannfacinrers, does 
not at all signify (which is obvious) ; for the violent collec- 
tion of poll-taxes and indirect and land taxes which are paid 
in monej' to the government and to its assistants, — the land- 
owners, — compels the workingman to be in slavery to 
those who collect mcme}^ ; but it means that this money, 
as a means of exchange, and an iron law, exist. 

Before the serfs were free, I could compel Ivdn to do 
any work ; and if he refused to do it, I could send him 
to the police-sergeant, and the latter would give him the rod 
till he submitted. And if 1 compelled Ivan to overwork 
himself, and did not give, him either land or food, the mat- 
ter would go up to the authorities, and I should have to 
answer for it. 

But now that men are free, I can compel Ivan and Peter 
and Sidor to do every kind of work ; and if they refuse to do 
it. I give them no money to pay taxes, and they will be 
flogged till they submit : besides this, 1 may also make a Ger- 
man, a Frenchman, a Chinaman, and an Indian, work for me 
by that means, so that, if they do not submit, 1 shall not give 
them money to hire land, or to buy bread, because they have 
neither land nor bread. And if I make them overwork them- 
selves, or kill them with excess of labor, nobody will say a 
word to me- about it ; and, moreover, if I have read books on 


90 


WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 


political economy, I shall be strongly persuaded that all men 
are free, and that money does not create slavery ! Our peas- 
ants have long known that with a ruble one can hurt more 
than with a stick, lint it is only political economists who do 
not want to see it. 

To say that money does not create bondage, is to say that 
half a century ago servitude did not create slavery. Politi- 
cal economists say that money is an inoffensive medium of 
exchange, notwithstanding the fact that, in consefpience of 
possessing it, one man may enslave the other. Why, then, 
was it not said half a century ago that servitude was, in it- 
self, an inoffensive medium of recii)rocal services, notvvith- 
standing the fact that by no lawful means could one man 
enslave another? 

Some men give their manual labor ; and tlie work of others 
consists in taking care of the physical and intellectual wel- 
fare of the slaves, and in superintending their efforts. 

And, 1 fancy, some have really said this. 


XIX. 

If the object of this sham, so-called science of Political 
Economy had not been the same as that of all other sciences 
of law, — the justification of violence, — it could not have 
avoided noticing the strange phenomenon that the distribu- 
tion of wealth, and the depriving of some men of land and 
capital, and the enslaving of some men by others, depend 
upon money, and that it is only by means of money that 
some men utilize the labor of others ; in other words, enslave 
them. 

I repeat it, a man who has money, may buy up and mo- 
nopolize all the corn, and kill others with starvation, com- 
pletely oppressing them, as it has frequently happened before 
our own ej^es on a very large scale. 

It would seem that we ought to look out for the connection 
of these occurrences with money; but science, with full as- 
surance, asserts that money has no connection whatever with 
the matter in question. 

Science says. Money is as much an article of merchan- 
dise as anything else which has the value of its production, 
only with this difference, — that this article of merchandise is 
chosen as the more convenien' medium of exchange for 


WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 


91 


establishing values, for saving, and for making payments. 
One man has made boots, another has grown wheat, the 
third has bred sheep ; and now, in order to exchange more 
conveniently, they put into circulation money, wliich repre- 
sents the equivalent of labor; and by tliis medium they 
exchange the soles of boots for a loin of mutton, or ten pounds 
of dour. 

Students of this sham science are very fond of picturing to 
themselves such a state of affairs ; but there has never been 
such a condition in the world. Such an idea about societv is 
like the idea about the primitive, prehistorical, perfect hu- 
man state, which the philosophers cherished ; but there has 
never existed such a state. 

In all human societies where there has been money, there 
has been also the violence of the strong ami the armed over 
the weak and the defenceless ; and wherever there has been 
violence, there the standard of value, — money, — be it what 
it may, — either cattle or hides, or skins or metals, — must 
have lost unavoidably its siguilicance as a medium of ex- 
change, and received the meaning of a I’ansom from violence. 

Without doubt, money possesses the inoffensive proiierties 
which science enumerates ; but these properties it would 
have only in a society in which tliere was no violence, in an 
ideal state ; but in such a society, money would not be found 
as a general measure of value ; it has never existed, and 
could never exist, in a society which had not come under the 
general violence of the state. 

In all societies known to us where there is money, it re- 
ceives the signification of the medium of exchange only 
because it serves as a means of violence. And its chief 
object is to act thus, and not as a mere medium. Where 
there is violence, money cannot be a regular medium of 
exchange, because it cannot be a measure of value. And it 
cannot be a measure of value, because, as soon as in a society 
one man can take away from another the productions of his 
labor, this measure is directly violated. If horses and cows, 
bred by one man, and violently taken away b}^ others, were 
brought to a market, it is plain that the value of horses and 
cows there would no longer correspond with the labor of 
breeding them ; and the value of all otlier things would also 
change in accordance with this change, and monev would not 
determine their value. 

Besides, if one man may acquire by force a cow or a horse 


92 


WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 


or a house, he may by the same force acquire money itself, 
and wiili this money acquire all kinds of produce. If, then, 
money itself is acquired by violence, and spent to purchase 
things, money entirely loses its qualit}' as a medium of ex- 
change. 

The oppressor who takes awa}^ money, and gives it for the 
production of labor, does not exchange any thing, but by 
the means of labor takes away all that he wants. 

l>ut let us suppose that such an imaginary and impossible 
state of society really existed, in which, without a general 
violence of the state exercised over men, money is in circu- 
lation, — silver or gold serving as a measure of value and as 
a medium of exchange. All the savings in such a society 
are expressed by money. There appears in this society an 
oppressor in the shape of a conqueror. Let us sup[)ose that 
this oppressor takes away the cows, horses, clothes, and the 
houses of the inhabitants, but, as it is not convenient for him 
to be in possession of all this, he will therefore naturally 
think of taking from these men that which represents among 
them all kinds of value, and is exchanged for all kinds of 
things, — money. And at once in this community, money 
will receive for the oppressor and his assistants another 
signification : its character as a medium of exchange will 
therefore cease in such a society. 

The measure of the value of all things will always depend 
upon the pleasure of the oppressor. 

The articles most necessary for him, and for which he 
gives more money, will receive a greater value, and vice versa; 
so that, in a community exposed to violence, mone}^ receives 
at once its chief meaning, — it becomes a means of violence 
and a ransom from violence, and it will retain among the 
oppressed people its signification as a medium of exchange, 
only so far as it is convenient for the oppressor. Let us 
picture the whole affair in a circle, thus : — 

The serfs supply their landlord with linen, poultry, sheep, 
and dail}^ labor. 

The landlord substitutes money for these goods, and fixes 
the value of various articles sent in. Those who have no 
linen, corn, cattle, or manual labor to offer, may bring a 
definite sum of money. 

It is obvious, that, in the society of the peasants of this 
landlord, the price of various articles will always dejiend 
upon the landlord’s pleasure. The landlord uses the articles 


WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 


93 


collected among his peasants, and some of these articles are 
more necessary tor him than others : accordingly, he fixes 
the prices for them, more or less. It is clear that the mere 
will and requirements of the landlord must regulate the 
prices of these articles among the i)ayers. If he is in want 
of corn, he will set a high price for a fixed quanlity of it, 
and a low [)rice for linen, cattle, or work ; and therefore those 
who have no corn will sell their labor, linen, and cattle to 
others, in order to buy corn to give it to the landlord. 

If the landlord chooses to substitute mone}' for all kinds 
of claim, then the value of things will again dei)end, not 
upon the value of labor, but first upon the sum of money 
which the landlord will require, and secondly upon the 
articles produced b}^ the peasants which are more necessary 
to the landlord, and for which he will allow a higher price. 

The mone^^-claim made b}- the landlord upon the peasants 
would cease only to have any influence u[)on the prices of the 
articles when the peasants of this landlord should live sepa- 
rate from other people and have no connection with any one 
besides themselv^es and the landlord ; and secondly, when the 
landlord employs money, not in purchasing things in his own 
village, but elsewhere. It is only under these two conditions 
that the prices of things, though changed nominally, would 
remain relatively the same, and money would have the signifi- 
cation of a measure of value and of a medium of exchange. 

But if the peasants have any business connections with 
the inhabitants surrounding them, the prices of the articles 
of their produce, as sold to their neighbors, would depend 
upon the sum of money required from them by their landlord. 

(If from their neighbors less money is required than from 
them, then their productions would be sold cheaper than the 
productions of their neighbors, and vice versa.) And again, 
the money-demand made by the landlord upon his peasants 
would cease to have any influence upon the prices of the arti- 
cles, only when the sums collected l)y the landlord were not 
spent in buffing the productions of his own peasants. But if 
he spends money in purchasing from them, it is plain that 
the prices of various articles will constantly vary among them 
according as the landlord buys more of one thing than 
another. 

Suppose one landlord has fixed a very high poll-tax, and 
his neighbor a vei'y low one : it is clear that on the estate of 
the first landlord every thing will be cheaper than on the 


94 


WIIAT MUST WE DO THEN f 


estate of the second, and that the j)rices on either estate will 
depend only upon the augnientation and diminution of the 
poll-taxes. This is one influence of violence upon value. 

Another, arising out of the first, consists in the relative 
value of all things. Suppose one landlord is fond of horses, 
and pays a high price for them : another is fond of towels, 
and offers a high figure for them. It is obvious that on the 
estate of either of these two landlords, the horses and the 
towels will be dear, and the prices for these articles will not 
be in proportion to tln^se of cows or of corn. If to-morrow 
the collector of towels dies, and his heirs are fond of poultry, 
then it is obvious that the price of towels will fall, and that 
of poultry will rise. 

Wherever there is in society the mastery of one man over 
another, there the meaning of money as the measure of value 
at once yields to the will of the oppressor, and its meaning as 
a medium of exchange of the i)roductions of labor is re[)laced 
by another, that of the most convenient means of utilizing 
the labor of others. 

The oppressor wants money neither as a medium of ex- 
change, — for he will take whatever he wants without 
exchange, — nor as a measure of value, — for he will himself 
determine the value of every thing, — but only for the con- 
venience it affords of exercising violence ; and this convenience 
consists in the fact that money may be saved up, and is the 
most convenient means of holding in slavery the majority of 
mankind. 

It is not convenient to carry away all the cattle in order 
always to have horses, cows, and sheep whenever wanted, 
because they must be fed ; the same holds good with coim, 
for it may be spoiled ; the same with slaves ; sometimes a 
man may require thousands of workmen, and sometimes 
none. Money demanded from those who have not got it, 
makes it possible to get rid of all these inconveniences, and 
to have every thing that is required : this is wh3^the oppressor 
wants money. Besides this, he wants money in order that his 
right to utilize another’s labor may not be confined to certain 
men, but may be extended to all men who likewise require it. 

When there was no money in circulation, each landlord 
could utilize the lal)or only of his own serfs ; but when they 
agreed to demand from their peasants money which they had 
not, they were all enabled to appropriate without distinction 
the labor of the men on every estate. 


WHAT MUST WE DO THEN f 


95 


Thus the oppressor finds it more convenient to press all 
his claims upon another’s labor in the sha[)e of money, and 
for this sole object is it desired. To the victim from whom 
it is taken away, money cannot be of use, either for the pur- 
pose of exchange, seeing he exchanges without money, as all 
nations have exchanged who had no government ; nor for a 
measure of value, because this is fixed without him ; nor for 
the purpose of saving, because the man whose productions 
are taken away cannot save ; neither for payments, because 
an oppressed man will always have more to pay than to re- 
ceive ; and if he does receive an}' thing, the payment will be 
made, not in money, but in articles of merchandise in either 
case ; whether the workman takes goods out of his master’s 
shop as remuneration for his labor, or whether he buys the 
necessaries of life with all his earnings in other shops, the 
money is required from him, and he is told by his oppressors 
that if he does not pay it, they will refuse to give him land 
or bread, or will take away his cow or his horse, or condemn 
him to work, or put him in prison. He can only free himself 
from all this by selling the productions of his toil, his own 
labor, or that of his children. 

And this he will have to sell according to those prices 
which will be established, not by a regular exchange, but 
by the authority which demands money of him. 

Under the conditions of the influence of tribute and taxes 
upon the prices which everywhere and always repeat them- 
selves, as with the land-owners in a narrow circle, so also 
with the state on a larger scale (in which the causes of the 
modification of prices are as obvious to us, as it is obvious 
how the hands and feet of puppets are set in motion, to 
those who look behind the curtain and see who are the wire- 
pullers) : under these circumstances, to say that money is 
a medium of exchange and a measure of value, is at least 
astonishing. 


XX. 

All slavery is based solely on the fact that one man can 
deprive another of his life, and by threatening to do so 
compel him to do his will. We may see for certain that 
whenever one man is enslaved by another, when against 
his own will, and according to the will of another, he does 
certain actions, which are contrary to his inclination, the 


96 


WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 


cause, if traced to its source, is nothing more nor less than 
a result of this threat. If a man gives to others all his 
labor, has not enough to eat, has to send his little children 
from home to work liard, leaves his family, and devotes all 
his life to a hated and unnecessary task, as hai)[)ens before 
our own eyes in the world (which we term civilized because 
we ourselves live in it), then we may certainl}^ say that 
he does so only because not to do so would be equiv'alent 
to loss of life. 

And therefore in our civilized world, where the majority 
of people, amidst terrible privations, perform hated labors 
unnecessary to themselves, the greater number of men are 
in slavery based upon the threat of being deprived of their 
existence. Of what, then, does this slavery consist? And 
wherein lies this power of threat? 

Jn olden times the means of subjugation and the threat 
to kill were plain and obvious to all : the primitive means 
of enslaving men consisted then in a direct threat to kill 
with the sword. 

An armed man said to an unarmed, “I can kill thee, as 
thou hast seen I have done to thy brother, but 1 do not 
want to do it: I will spare thee, — first, because it is not 
agreeable for me to kill thee ; secondly, because, as well for 
me as for thee, it will be more convenient that thon shonldst 
labor for me than that I should kill thee. Therefore do 
all I order thee to do, but know that, if thou refusest, I will 
take thy life.” 

So the unarmed man submitted to the armed one ; and 
did evei^ thing which he was ordered to do. The unarmed 
man labored, the armed threatened. This was that per- 
sonal slavery which appeared first among all nations, and 
which still exists among primitive races. 

This means of enslaving always begins the work ; but 
when life becomes more complicated, it undergoes a change. 
With the complication of life, such a means presents great 
inconveniences to the oppressor. He, in order to appropri- 
ate the labor of the weak, has to feed and clothe them, 
and keep them able to work, and so the number of slaves 
is diminished : besides, this compels the enslaver to remain 
continually with the enslaved, driving him to work b}’ the 
threat of murdering him. And thus is developed another 
means of subjugation. 

Five thousand years ago (as we find in the Bible) this 


WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 97 

novel, convenient, and clever means of oppression was dis- 
covered ])v Joseph the Beautiful. 

It is similar to that emplo 3 ’ed now in the menageries for 
taming restive horses and wild beasts. 

It is hunger ! 

This contrivance is thus described in the Bible : — 

Genesis xli. 48 : And he gathered up all the food of the 
seven years, which were in the land of Egyi)t, and laid up 
the food in the cities : the food of the held, which was 
round about eveiy city, laid he up in the same. 

49. And Joseph gathered corn as the sand of the sea, 
very much, until he left numbering ; for it was without 
number. 

oJ. And the seven years of plenteousness, that was in 
the land of Egypt, were ended. 

54. And the seven 3 ^ears of dearth began to come, ac- 
cording as Joseph had said : and the dearth was in all lands ; 
but in all the land of Egypt, there was bread. 

55. And when all the land of Egypt was famished, the 
people cried to Pharaoh for bread : and Pharaoh said unto 
all the Egyptians, Go unto Joseph; what he saith to 3 "Ou, 
do. 

5G. And the famine was over all the face of the earth : 
And Joseph opened all the storehouses, and sold unto the 
Egyptians ; and the famine waxed sore in the land of Egypt. 

57. And all countiies came into Egypt to Josej)!! for to 
bu 3 ^ corn ; because that the famine was so sore in all lands. 

Joseph, making use of the primitive means of enslaving 
men by the threat of the swoi’d, gathered corn during the 
seven years of plenty in expectation of seven 3 "ears of 
famine, which generall37 follow 3 "enrs of plent 3 ', — men know 
all this without the dreams of Pharaoh, — and then 1)3’’ the 
l)angs of hunger he more securely and convenientlv made all 
the Egyptians and the inhabitants of the surrounding coun- 
tries slaves to Pharaoh. And when the people began to be 
famished, he arranged matters so as to keep them in his 
l^ower forever. 

Genesis xlvii. 13 : And there was no bread in all the land ; 
for the famine was very sore, so that the land of Egyj)! 
and all the land of Canaan fainted by reason of the famine. 


98 


WHAT MUST WE BO THEN? 


14. And Joseph gathered up all the money that was found 
in the land of Egypt, and in the land of Canaan, for tlie 
corn which they bought : and Joseph brought the money into 
Pharaoh’s house. 

15. And when money failed in the land of Egypt, and in 
the land of Canaan, all the P]gyptians came unto Joseph, 
and said. Give us bread : for why should we die in th}’ pres- 
ence? for the money faileth. 

10. And Joseph said. Give your cattle; and I will give 
you for your cattle, if money fail. 

17. And they, brought their cattle unto Joseph: and 
Joseph gave them bread in exchange for horses, and for the 
floeks, and for the cattle of the herds. Mid for the asses : 
and he fed them with bread for all their cattle for that year. 

18. When that year was ended, they came unto him the 
second year, and said unto him. We will not hide it from my 
Lord, how that our money is spent; my lord also hath our 
herds of cattle ; there is not ought left in the sight of my 
lord, but our bodies, and our lands : 

19. Wherefore shall we die before thine ej^es, iDoth we 
and our land? bu}’ us and our land for bread, and we and 
our land will be servants unto Pharaoh : and give us seed, 
that we may live, and not die, that the land be not desolate. 

20. And Joseph bought all the land of Egypt for Pha- 
raoh ; for the Egyptians sold every man his field, because the 
famine prevailed over them : so the land became Pharaoh’s. 

21. And as for the people, he removed them to cities from 
one end of the borders of Egypt even to the other end 
thereof. 

22 . Only the land of the priests bought he not ; for the 
priests had a portion assigned them of Pharaoh, and did eat 
their portion whieh Pharaoh gave them : wherefore they sold 
not their lands. 

23. Then Joseph said unto the people. Behold, I have 
bought you this day and your land for Pharaoh : lo, here is 
seed for you, and ye shall sow the land. 

24. And it shall come to pass in the increase, that 3 'e shall 
give the fifth part unto Pharaoh, and four parts shall be 
your own, for seed of the field, and for your food, and for 
them of your households, and for food for your little ones. 

25. And they said. Thou hast saved our lives : let us find 
grace in the sight of my lord, and we will be Pharaoh’s 
servants. 


WHAT MUST WE BO THEN? 


99 


26 . And Joseph made it a law over the land of Egypt 
unto this da3^ that Pharaoh should have the liftli part ; except 
the land of the priests only, which became not Pharaoh’s. 

J^ormerly, in order to appropriate labor, Pharaoh had to 
use violence towards them ; but now, when the stores and the 
land belonged to Pharaoh, he had only to keep these stores 
by force, and by means of hunger compel men to labor for 
him. 

All the land now bcdonged to Pharaoh, and he had all the 
stores (which were taken awa}' from the people) ; and there- 
fore, instead of driving them to work individually by the 
sword, he had only to keep food from them, and they were 
enslaved, not by the sword, but by hunger. 

In a j'ear of scare! t}^, all men may be starved to death at 
Pharaoh’s will; and in a year of plenty, all may be killed 
who, from casual misfortunes, have no stores of corn. 

And thence comes into operation the second means of 
enslaving, not directly with the sword, — that is, by the strong 
man driving the weak one to labor under threat of killing 
him, — but by the strong one having taken away from the weak 
the stores of corn which, keeping b}’ the sword, he compels 
the weak to work for. 

Joseph said to the hungry men, “I could starve you to 
death, because I have the corn ; ])ut I will spare your life, 
but onl}^ under the condition that 3^011 do all 1 order 3x^11 for 
the food which I will give you.” Foi* the first means of 
enslaving, the oppressor needs only soldiers to ride to and 
fro among the inhabitants, and under threat of death make 
them fulfil the requirements of their master. And thus the 
opi)ressor has only to pay his soldiers ; but with the second 
n)eans, besides these the oppressor must have different assist- 
ants for keei)ing and protecting the land and stores from 
the starving people. 

These are the Josephs and his stewards and distributers. 
And the 0[)i)ressor has to reward them, and to give Joseph a 
dress of fine linen, a gold ring, and servants, and corn and 
silver to his brothers and relatives. Besides this, fi'om the 
very nature of this second means, not only the stewards and 
their relations, but all those who have stores of corn, become 
participators in this violence, just as by the first means, based 
upon crude force, every one who has arms becomes a part- 
ner in tyrann3^ ; so by this means, based upon hunger, every 


100 


what must we do then? 


one who has stores of provision shares in it, and has powei 
over those who have no stores. 

The advantage of this means over the former for the op- 
pressor, consists, first and chiefly, in the fact that he need 
no longer compel the workingmen by force to do his will, 
for they themselves come to him, and sell themselves to him ; 
secondly, in the circumstance that fewer men escape from 
his violence : the drawback is, that lie has to employ a greater 
number of men. F or the oppressed the advantage of it consists 
in the fact that they are no longer exposed to rough violence, 
but are left to themselves, and can alwa3^s hope to pass from 
being the oppressed to become oppressors in tlieir turn, 
which they sometimes reall}" do by fortunate circumstances. 
The drawback for them is, that they can never escape from 
participating in the oppression of others. 

This new means of enslaving generall}^ comes into opera- 
tion together with the old one ; and the oppressor lessens the 
one and increases the other, according to his desires. 

lint this does not fully satisfy the man who wishes to have 
as little trouble and care as possible, and to take away as 
much as possible of the productions of labor of as many 
working-peo[)le as he can find, and to enslave as many men 
as possible ; and, therefore, a third means of oppression is 
evolved. 

This is the slavery of taxation, and, like the second, it is 
based upon hunger; but to the means of subduing men by 
depriving them of bread, is added the privation of other 
necessaries of life. 

The oppressor requires from the slaves such a quantity of 
money which he himself has coined, that, in order to obtain 
it, the slaves are compelled to sell not onh' stores of corn in 
greater quantity than the fifth part which was fixed by 
Joseph, but the first necessaries of life as well, — meat, skins, 
wool, clothes, firewood, even their dwellings ; and therefore 
the oppressor always keeps his slaves in his power, not only 
b}' hunger, but by hunger, thirst, cold, and otlier privations. 

And then the third means of slavery comes into operation, 
a monetary, a tributary one, consisting in the oppressor say- 
ing to the oppressed, I can do with each of you just what 
I like ; I can kill and destroy you by taking away the land by 
which you earn j'our living ; I can, with this money which 
you must give me, buy all the corn upon which you feed, and 
sell it to strangers, and at any time annihilate you by starva- 


WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 


101 


tion ; I can take from you all that yon have, — your cattle, 
your houses, 3^0111- clothes ; but it is neither convenient nor 
agreeable for me to do so, and therefore 1 let }’ou alone, to 
work as you please ; only give me so much of the money 
which I demand of 3’ou, either as a poll-tax, or according to 
the quantity of 3^0111* food and drink, or your clothes or your 
houses. Give me this mone3q what 3^011 like among 

3’ourselves, but know that 1 shall neither protect nor main- 
tain widows nor or[)hans nor invalids nor old people, nor 
such as have been burned out: f shall 01113’^ protect the regular 
circulation of this mone3\ This right will alwa3^s be mine to 
protect only those who regularl3^ give me the fixed number of 
these pieces of money : as to how or where 3^011 get it, I will 
not in the least trouble m3"self.” And so the oppressor dis- 
tributes these pieces of mone3^ as an acknowledgment that 
his demand has been complied with. 

The second means of enslaving consists in that, having 
taken away the fifth part of the harvest, and collected stores 
of corn, the Pharaoh, besides the personal slavery by the 
sword, receives, by his assistants, the possibility of dominion 
over the working-people during the time of famine, and over 
some of them forever from misfortunes which happen to 
them. 

The third means consists in this : Pharaoh requires from 
the working-people more money than the value of the fifth 
part of corn which he took from them ; he, together with his 
assistants, gets a new means of dominion over the working- 
class, not mereh' during the famine and their casual misfor- 
tunes, but permanentlv. B3^ the second means, men retain 
stores of corn which help them to bear indifferent harvests 
and casual misfortunes without going into slavery ; by the 
third, when there are more demands, the stores, not of corn 
only, but of all other necessaries of life, are taken awa3’’ from 
them, and at the first misfortune a workingman, having 
neither stores of corn, nor an3’^ other stores which he might 
have exchanged for corn, falls into slavery to those who have 
mone3^ 

P'or the fii’st, an oppressor need have only soldiers, and 
shai’e the booty with them ; for the second, he must have, 
besides the protectoVs of the land and the stores of corn, 
collectors and clerks for the distribution of this corn ; for 
the third, he must have, besides the soldiers for keeping 
the land and his property, collectors of taxes, assessors 


102 


WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 


of direct and indirect taxation, supervisors, custom-house 
clerks, managers of money, and coiners of it. 

The organization of the third means is much more com- 
plicated than that of the second. By the second, the getting 
in of corji may be leased out, as was the case in olden times 
and is still in Turkey; but by putting taxes on men, there 
is need of a complicated administration, which has to in- 
sure that the taxes are rightly levied. And therefore, by 
the third means, the oppressor has to share the plunder 
with a still greater number'* of men than by the second; 
besides, according to the very natui-e of the thing, all those 
men of the same or of the foreign country who possess 
money, become sharers with the oppressed. 

Tlie advantage of this means over the first and second 
consists in the following fact : chiefly that by it there is 
no need of waiting for a year of scarcity, as in the time of 
Joseph, but years of ftiinine are established forever, and 
(whilst by the second method the part of the labor which 
is taken away depends upon the harvest, and cannot be 
augmented ad libitum^ because if there is no corn, there 
can be nothing to take) by the new monetary method 
the requirement can be brought to any desired limit, for 
the demand for money can always be satisfied, because the 
debtor, in order to satisfy it, will sell his cattle, clothes, or 
houses. The chief advantage of this means to the oppressor 
consists in the fact that Iw it he can take away the greatest 
quantit3' of labor and in the most convenient way ; for a 
money-tax, like a screw, may easily and conveniently be 
screwed up to the utmost limit, and golden eggs be obtained 
though the bird that lays them is all but dead. 

Another of Its advantages for the op[)ressor is that its 
violence reaches all those also who, b}" possessing no land, 
escaped from it formerly by giving only a pait of their 
labor for corn ; and now besides that part which the}^ give 
for corn, they must give another part for taxes. A draw- 
back for the oppressor is, that he has to share the plunder 
with a still gi'eater number of men, not only with his direct 
assistants, but also with all those men of his own country, 
and even foreign countries, who ma}' have the money which 
is demanded fi-om the slaves. 

Its advantage for the oppressed is only that he is allowed 
greater independence : he may live wherever he chooses, 
do whatever he likes ; he may sow or not sow ; he has not 


WHAT MUST WE DO TIlENf 


103 


to give any account of his labor ; and if he has money, he 
may consider himself entirely free, and constantly hope, 
though only for a time, when he has money to spare, to 
obtain not only an independent position, but even to 
become an oppressor himself. 

The drawback is, that, on a general average, the situation 
of the oppressed becomes much worse, and they are de- 
prived of the greater part of the productions of their labor, 
because by it the number of those who utilize the labor of 
others increases, and therefore the burden of keeping them 
falls upon a smaller number of men. This third means of 
enslaving men is also a very old one, and comes into oper- 
ation with the former two without entirely excluding them. 

All three have always been in operation. All may be 
likened to screws, which secure the board which is laid upon 
the working-people, and which presses them down. The 
fundamental, or middle screw, without which the other 
screws could not hold, which is first screwed up, and which 
is never slackened, is the sci’ew of personal slavery, the 
enslaving of some men by others under threat of slaughter ; 
the second, which is screwed up after the first, is tliat of 
enslaving men by taking away the land and stores of pro- 
visions from them, such abduction being maintained under 
threat to murder; and the third screw is slavery enforced 
by the requirement of certain coins ; and this demand is 
also maintained under threat of murder. 

These three screws are made fast, and it is only when one 
of them is tightened that the two others are slackened. For 
the complete enslaving of the workingman, all three are neces- 
saiy ; and in our society, all three are in operation together. 
Tlie first means by personal slavery under the threat of mur- 
der by the sword has never been abolished, and never will 
be so long as there is oppression, because all kinds of oppres- 
sion are based upon this alone. We are all very sure that 
personal slavery is abolished in our civilized world ; that the 
last remnant of it has been annihilated in America and in 
Russia, and that it is only among barbarians that real slavery 
exists, and that with us it is no longer in being. 

We forget only one small circumstance, — those hundreds 
of millions of standing troops, without which no state exists, 
and with the abolition of which all the economical oi'ganiza- 
tion of each state would inevitably fall to pieces. Yet what 
are these millions of soldiers but the personal slaves of those 


104 


WUAT MUST WE BO THEN? 


who rule over them? Are not these men com])elled to do 
the will of their commanders, under the threat of torture and 
death, — a threat often carried out? the difference consisting 
only in the fact that the submission of these slaves is not 
called slavery, but discipline ; the only difference being that 
slaves are so from their birth, and soldiers only during a more 
or less short period of their so-called service. 

Personal slavery, therefore, is not only not abolished in 
our civilized world, but, under the general system of recruit- 
ing, it has become confirmed of late years ; and as it has 
always existed, so it has remained, having only somewhat 
changed from its original form. And it cannot but exist, 
because, so long as there is the enslaving of one man by 
another, there will be this personal slavery too, that which 
under threat of the sword maintains the serfdom of land- 
ownership and taxes. 

It may be that this slavery, that is, of troops, is neces- 
sary, as it is said, for the defence and the glory of the 
country ; but this kind of utility is more than doubtful, be- 
cause we see how often in the case of unsuccessful wars it 
serves only for the subjugation and shame of the country ; 
but the expediency of this slavery for maintaining that of the 
land and taxes is unquestionable. 

If Irish or Russian peasants were to take possession of the 
land of the land-owners, troops would be sent to dispossess 
them. 

If 3^ou build a distillery or a brewery, and do not pny ex- 
cise, then soldiers will be sent to shut it up. Refuse to pay 
taxes, the same thing will happen to you. 

The second screw is the means of enslaving men by taking 
away from them the land and their stores of provisions. 
This means has also been always in existence wherever men 
are oppressed ; and, whatever changes it may undergo, it is 
everywhere in operation. 

Sometimes all the land belongs to the sovereign, as is the 
case in Turkey, and there one-tenth is given to the state 
treasury. Sometimes a part of the land belongs to the sove- 
reign, and taxes are raised upon it. Sometimes all the land 
belongs to a few people, and is let ont for labor, as is the 
case in England. Sometimes more or less large portions of 
the land belong to the land-owners, as is the case in Russia, 
German V. and France. But wherever there is enslaving, 
there exists also the appropriation of the land by the op- 


WHAT MUST WE BO THEN f 


105 


pressor. This screw is slackened or tightened according to 
the condition of the other screws. 

Tims, in Russia, when personal slavery was extended to 
the majority of working-people, there was no need of land- 
slavery ; but the screw of personal slavery was slackened in 
Russia only when the screws of land and tax slavery were 
tightened. 

In England, for instance, the land slavery is pre-eminently 
in operation, and the question about the nationalizing of the 
land consists only in the screw of taxation being tightened in 
order that the screw of land appropriation may be slackened. 

The third means of enslaving men by taxes has also been 
in operation for ages ; and in our days, with the extension of 
uniform standards of money and the strengthening of the 
state power, it has received only a particular influence. 

This means is so worked out in our days, that it tends 
to substitute the second means of enslaving, — the land 
monopoly. 

This is the screw by the tightening of which the screw 
of land slavery is slackened, as is obvious from the politico- 
economical state of all Europe. 

AVe have, in our lifetime, witnessed in Russia two trans- 
formations of slavery : when the serfs wei'e liberated, and 
their landlords retained the right to the greater part of the 
land, the landlords were afraid that they were going to lose 
their power over their slaves ; but experience has shown, that, 
having let go the old chain of personal slavery, they had 
only to seize another, — that of the land. A peasant was 
short of corn ; he had not enough to live on : and the landloixl 
had land and stores of corn, and therefore the peasant still 
remained the same slave. 

Another transformation was caused by the governn?ent 
screw of taxation being pressed home, when the majority of 
working-people, having no stores, were obliged to sell them- 
selves to their landlords and to the factories. The new 
form of oppression held the people still tighter, so that 
nine-tenths of the Russian working-people are working for 
their landlords and in the factories to pay these taxes. This 
is so obvious, that, if the government were not to raise taxes 
for one year only, all labor would be stopped in the fields of 
the landlords and in the factories. Nine-tenths of the 
Russian people hire themselves out during and before the 
collection of taxes. All these three means have never ceased 


106 


WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 


to operate, and are still in operation ; but men are inclined to 
ignore them, and new excuses are invented for them. 

And what is most remarkable of all is this, that the very 
means on which, at the moment in question, every thing is 
based,' that screw which is screwed up tighter than all 
others, which holds every thing, is not noticed so long as it 
holds. When in the ancient world all the economical admin- 
istration was upheld by personal slavery, the greatest intellects 
did not notice it. To Plato, as well as to Xenophon and 
Aristotle and to the Romans, it seemed that it could not be 
otherwise, and that slavery was an unavoidable and natural 
result of wars, without which the existence of mankind 
could not be thought of. 8o also in the Middle Ages and up 
to the present time, men have not apprehended the meaning 
of land-ownership, upon which depended all the economical 
administration of their time. 

So also, at present, no one sees, or wants to see, that in 
our time the enslaving of the majority of the people depends 
upon taxes collected by tlie government from its own land 
slaves, taxes collected by the troops^ by the very same troops, 
which are maintained by means of these taxes. 


XXI. 

No wonder that the slaves themselves, who have always 
been enslaved, do not undei’stand their own position, and 
that this condition in which they have always been living is 
considered by them to be that natural to human life, and 
that the}^ hail as a relief any change in their form of slavery ; 
no wonder that their owners sometimes quite sincerely think 
they are, in a measure, freeing the slaves by slackening one 
screw, though they are compelled to do so by the over-tension 
of another. 

Both l)ecome accustomed to their state ; and one part, — 
the slaves. — never having known what freedom is, merely 
seek an alleviation, or only the change of their condition ; 
the other, — the owners, — wishing to mask their injustice, try 
to assign a particular meaning to those new forms of slavery 
which they enforce in place of older ones : but it is wonder- 
ful how the majority of the investigators of the economical 
conditions of the life of the people fail to see that wliich 
forms the basis of all the economical conditions of a people. 


WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 


107 


It would seem that the duty of a true science was to try 
to ascertain tlie connection of the phenomena and general 
cause of a series of occurrences. But the majoriU’ of the 
representatives of modern Political Economy are doing just 
the reverse of this : they carefully hide the connection and 
meaning of the phenomena, and avoid answering the most 
simple and essential (piestions. 

Modern Political Economy, like an idle, lazy cart-horse, 
goes well only down-hill, when it has no collar-work ; but as 
soon as it has any thing to draw, it at once refuses, pretending 
it has to go somewhere aside after its own l)usiness. When 
any grave, essential question is put to Political Economy, 
scientific discussions are started about some matter or other, 
which does not in the least concern the question. 

You ask. How are we to account for a fact so unnatural, 
monstrous, unreasonable, and not useless onl3^ but harmful, 
that some men can eat or work only in accordance with the 
will of other men? 

And you are gravely answered. Because some men must 
arrange the labor and the feeding of others, — such is the 
law of production. 

You ask. What is this right of property, according to 
wdiich some men appropriate to themselves the land, food, 
and instruments of labor belonging to others? You are 
again gravely answered. This right is based upon the pro- 
tection of labor,' — that is, the protection of some men’s 
labor is effected by taking possession of the labor of other 
men. 

You ask. What is that money which is everywhere coined 
and stamped by the governments, by the authorities, and 
which is so exorbitantly demanded from the working-peoi)le, 
and which in the shape of national debts is levied upon the 
future generations of woi'kingmen? And further, has not 
this money, demanded from the people in the shape of taxes, 
raised to the utmost pitch, has not this money any intluence 
upon the economical relationships of men, — between the 
payers and the receivers? And you are answered in all seri- 
ousness, Money is an article of merchandise like sugar, or 
chintz ; and it differs from other articles only in the fact that 
it is more convenient for exchange. 

As for the influence of taxes upon the economical condi- 
tions of a people, it is a ditferent question altogether: the 
laws of production, exchange, and distribution of wealth, are 


108 


WHAT MUST WE HO THEN? 


one thing, but taxation is quite another. Yon ask whether 
it has any influence upon the economical conditions of a peo- 
ple that the government can arbitrarily raise or lower prices, 
and, having augmented the taxes, can enslave all those who 
have no land? The pompons answer is. The laws of pro- 
duction, exchange, and distribution of wealth is one science, 
— Political Economy; and taxes, and, generall}' speaking. 
State Economy, come under another head, — the Law of 
Finance. 

You ask finally. Is there no influence exercised upon 
economical conditions by the circumstance that all the people 
are in bondage to the government, and that this government 
can arbitrarily ruin all men, take away all the productions of 
men’s labor, and even carry the men themselves away from 
their labor into military slaveiy? You are answered. That 
this is altogether a different question, belonging to the State 
Law. 

The majority of the representatives of science discuss 
quite seriously the laws of the economical life of a people, 
while all the functions and activities of this life are depend- 
ent upon the will of the oppressor ; .whilst, at the same 
time, recognizing the influence of the oppressor as a natural 
condition of the life of a people, they do the same thing 
that an investigator of the economical conditions of the life 
of the personal slaves of different masters would do, were he 
not to consider the influence exercised iq)oh the life of these 
slaves by the will of that master who com[)els them to labor 
upon this or that thing, and who drives them from one place 
to another, according to his pleasure, who feeds them or neg- 
lects to do so, who kills them or leaves them alive. 

A dreadful superstition has been long, and is still, in exist- 
ence, — a superstition which has done more harm to men than 
all the most terrible religious superstitions. 

And so-called science supports this superstition with all its 
power, and with the utmost zeal. This superstition resem- 
bles exactly the religious one, and consists in affirming, that, 
besides the duties of man to man, there are still more impor- 
tant duties towards an imaginary being, which theologians 
call God, and political science the State. 

The religious superstition consists in this : That the sacri- 
fices, sometimes of human lives, offered to this imaginary 
being, are necessary, and that they can and ought to be en- 
forced by every means, even by violence. The political 


WHAT MUST WE BO THEN f 


109 


superstition consists in this : That, besides tlie duties of man 
to man, tliere exist still more important duties to an ima- 
ginary being ; and the offerings, very often, of human lives 
brought to this imaginary being, — the State, — are also 
necessary, and can and ought to be enforced by every means, 
even by violence. 

This very superstition which was formerly encouraged b}" 
the priests of different religions, is now sustained b}’ so- 
called science. 

Men are thrown into slavery, into the most terrible slavery, 
worse than has ever before existed ; but so-called science tries 
to })ersuade men that such is necessary, and cannot be avoided. 

The state must exist for the welfare and business of the 
people ; to rule and protect them from their enemies. 

For this purpose the state wants money and troops. 
Money must be subscribed b}’ all the citizens of the state. 
And hence all the relationships of men must be considered 
under the conditions of the existence of the state. 

“ I want to help my father by my labor,” sa\’s a common, 
unlearned man. “ 1 want also to marry ; but instead, 1 am 
taken and sent to Kazan, to be a soldier for six years. I 
leave tlie militaiw service. I want to plough the ground, 
and earn food for ni}^ family ; but 1 am not allowed to plough 
for one hundred versts around me, unless I pa}^ money, 
which 1 have not got, and pay it to those men wdio do not 
understand how to plough, and who require for the land so 
much money, that I must give them all my labor to procure 
it : however. I still manage to save something, and I want to 
give my savings to my children ; but a police sei-geant comes 
to me, and takes from me all 1 had saved for taxes : I earn a 
little more, and am again deprived of it. All my economical 
activity is under the influence of state demands ; and it ap- 
pears to me that the amelioration of my position, and that of 
my brethren, will follow our liberation from the demands of 
the state.” 

But he is told, such reasoning is the result of his ignorance. 

Study the law^s of production, exchange and distribution of 
wealth, and do not mix up economical questions with those 
of the state. 

The phenomena which you point to are not at all a con- 
straint put upon your freedom ; but they are those necessary 
sacrilices which you, along with others, must make for your 
own freedom and welfare. 


no 


WIIAT MUST WE DO THEN? 


“ But my son has been taken away from me,” sa3's again a 
common man ; “ and they threaten to take away all my sons as 
soon as they are grown up : the}^ took him away b}' force, 
and drove him to face the enemy’s guns into some country 
which we have never heard of, and for an object which we 
cannot undeistand. 

“And as for the land which they do not allow us to plough, 
and for want of which we are starving, it belongs to a man 
who got possession of it by force, and whom we have never 
seen, and whose affairs we cannot even understand. And 
the taxes, to collect which the police sergeant has by force 
taken away my cow from my children, so far as I know, will 
go over to this same man who took my cow awa}', and to va- 
rious members of committees, and of departments which I do 
not know of, and in the utility of which I do not believe. 
How is it, then, that all these acts of violence secure my 
liberty, and all tliis evil is to [)rocure good?” 

You ma}^ compel a mau to be a slave, and to do that which 
he considers to be evil for himself, but you cannot compel 
him to think, that, in sufiering violence, he is free, and that 
the obvious evil which he endures, constitutes his good. 

Yet this seemingly impossible thing has been done in our 
days. 

The government, that is, the armed oppressors, decide 
what they want from those whom thcN’ oj^press (as in the 
case of England and the Fiji-Islandei's) : the}’ decide how 
much labor they want from their slaves, — the}^ decide 
how many assistants they will need in collecting the fruits 
of this labor ; they organize their assistants in the shape of 
soldiers, land-owners, and collectors of taxes. 

And the slaves give their labor, and, at the same time, be- 
lieve that they give it, not because their masters demand it, 
but for the sake of their own freedom and welfare ; and that 
this service and these bloody sacrifices to the divinity’ called 
State are necessaiy, and that, barring this service to their 
Deity, they are free. They believe it because the same had 
been formerly said in the name of religion by the priests, 
and is now said in the name of so-called science, — by 
learned men. 

But one need only cease to believe what is said by other 
men, who call themselves priests or learned men, in order 
that the absurdity of such an assertion may become obvious. 

The men who oppress others assure them that this oppres- 


WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 


Ill 


sion is necessary for the state, — and the state is necessary 
for the freedom and welfare of men ; so that it appears that 
the oppressors oi)press men for the sake of their freedom, 
and do them evil for the sake of good. But men are fur- 
nished with reason in order to understand wherein consists 
their own good, and to do it willingly. 

As for the acts, the goodness of which is not intelligible to 
men, and to which they are compelled by force, such cannot 
serve for their good, because a reasoning being may consider 
as good only the thing which appears so to his reason. If 
men from passion or folly are driven to evil, all that those 
who are not so driven can do, is to persuade men as to what 
constitutes tlieir real good. You may try to persuade men 
that their welfare will be gi'eater when they are all become 
soldiers, are deprived of land, and have given their whole 
labor away for taxes ; but until all men consider this condition 
to be their welfare, and undertake it willingly, one cannot 
call such a state of things the common welfare of men. 

The walling acceptance of a condition by men is the sole 
criterion of its good. And the lives of men abound with 
such acts. Ten workmen buy tools in common, in order to 
w'ork together wadi them, and in so doing they are undoubt- 
edly benefiting themselves ; but we cannot suppose that if 
these ten workmen were to compel an eleventh, b}’ force, to 
join in their association, they w’ould insist that their common 
welfare will be the same for him. 

And so with gentlemen who agree to give a subscription 
dinner at a pound a head to a mutual friend, no one can assert 
that such a dinner will benefit a man who, against his wall, 
has been obliged to pay a sovereign for it ; and so with peas- 
ants who decide, for their common convenience, to dig a 
pond. 

For those who consider the existence of such more valu- 
able than the labor spent upon it, the digging of it will be a 
common good. But to the one who considers the existence 
of the pond of less value than a day’s harvesting, in which 
he is beliind-hand. the digging of it will appear evil. The 
same holds good with roads, churches, and museums, and 
with all vai'ious social and state affairs. 

All such wairk may lie good for those wfiio consider it good, 
and who therefore freely and w illingiy perform it, — the dinner 
which the gentlemen give, the pond which the peasants dig. 
But the work to which men must be driven by force, ceases 


112 


WHAT MUST WE DO THEN f 


to be a common good preciselj’ by the fact of siicli violence. 
All this is so plain and simple, that, if men had not been so 
long deceived, there would be no need to explain it. 

ISuppose we live in a village where all the inhabitants have 
agreed to build a viaduct over the morass which is a danger 
to them. We agree together, and [)romise to give from each 
house so much in money or wood or days of labor. We 
agree to do this because the making of this road is more ad- 
vantageous to ns than what we exchange for it ; but among 
us there are some for whom it is more advantageous to do 
without a road than to spend money on it, or who, at all 
events, think it is so. Can the compelling of these men to 
make the way make it of advantage to them? Obviously 
not ; because those ' who considered that their joining by 
choice in making the way would have been to their disad- 
vantage, will consider it, a fortiori^ still more disadvantageous 
when they are compelled to do so. Suppose, even, that we 
all, without exception, were agreed, and promised so much 
money or labor from each house, but that- it happened that 
some of those who had promised did not give what they 
agreed on, their circumstances having meanwhile clianged, 
so that it is more advantageous for such now to be without 
the road than to spend money on it ; or that the}' have sim[)ly 
changed their mind about it, or even calculate that others 
will make the road without them, and that they will pass 
over it. Can the compelling of these men to join in the 
labor make them consider the sacrifices enforced upon them 
their own good ? 

Obviously not ; because, if such have not fulfilled what 
they have promised, owing to a change in their circumstances, 
so that now the sacrifices for the sake of the road outbalance 
their gain by it, the compulsory sacrifices of such would be 
only a worse evil. But if those who refuse to join in build- 
ing the bridge have in view the utilizing of the labor of 
others, then in this case also the compelling them to make a 
sacrifice would be only a punishment on a supposition, and 
their object, which nobody can prove, will be punished be- 
fore it is made apparent ; but in neither case can the compel- 
ling them to join, in a work undesired by them be good for 
them. 

And if it be so with sacrifices for a work comprehensible 
by all, obvious and undoubtedly useful to all as a road over 
a morass ; how still more unjust and unreasonable is the 


WHAT MUST WE BO THEN? 


113 


compelling of millions of men to make sacrifices, the object 
of which is incomprehensible, imperceptible, and often un- 
doubtedly harmful, as is the case with military service, and 
with taxes. 

But it is believed that what appears to every one to be an 
evil, is a common good: it appears that there are men, a 
small minorit}’, who alone know what the common good con- 
sists in, and, notwithstanding the fact that all other men 
consider this common good to be an evil, this minority can 
compel other men to do whatever they may consider to be 
for the common good. This constitutes the cliief supei’sti- 
tion and the chief deceit, which hinders the progress of man- 
kind towards the True and the Good. 

The nursing of this superstitious deceit has been the 
object of political sciences in general, and of so-called 
Political Economy in particular. 

Many are making use of it in order to hide from men the 
state of oppression and slavery in which they now are. 

The way they set about doing so is by starting the theory 
that violence, connected with the economy of social slaveiy, 
is a natural and unavoidable evil, and men thereb}' are 
deceived, and turn their eyes from the real causes of their 
misfortunes. 

Slavery has long been abolished. It has been abolished 
as well in Rome as in America, and among ourselves ; but 
the word only has been abolislied, and not the evil. 

Slavery is the violent freeing of some men from the labor 
necessary for satisfying their wants, which transfers this 
labor to others ; and wherever there is a man who does not 
work, not because others willingly and lovingly work for 
him, but because he has the possibility, while not working 
himself, to make others work for him, there is slavery. 

And wherever there are, as is the case with all European 
societies, men who by means of violence utilize the labor of 
thousands of othei’S, and consider such to be their right, and 
others who submit to this violence considering it to be their 
— there is slavery in its most dreadful proportions. 

Slavery does exist. In what, then, does it consist? In 
that by which it has alwa3^s consisted, and without which it 
cannot exist at all, — in the violence of a strong and armed 
man over a weak and unarmed one. 

Slavery with its three fundamental modes of operntion, — 
personal violence, soldiery, land-taxes, — maintained by 


114 


WHAT MUST WE HO THEN? 


soldiery, and direct and indirect taxes put upon all the 
inhabitants, and so maintained, is still in operation now as 
it has been before. 

We do not see it, because each of these three forms of 
slavery has received a new jnstitication, which hides its mean- 
ing from ns. 

The personal violence of armed over unarmed men received 
its justification in the defence of the country from its imagi- 
nary enemies, while in its essence it has the one old mean- 
ing, — the submission of the conquered to the oppressors. 

The taking away by violence from the laborers of their 
land was justified as a recompense for services rendered to 
an imaginary common welfare, and is confirmed by the right 
of heritage ; but in reality it is the same dei)riving men of 
land and enslaving them, which has been performed by the 
troops. 

And the last, the monetaiy violence by means of taxes, 
the strongest and most effective in our days, had received a 
most wonderful justification. 

The depriving men of the possession of their liberty and 
of all their goods is said to be done for the sake of the com- 
mon liberty and of the common welfare. But in fact it is 
the same slavery, only an impersonal one. 

Wherever violence is turned into law, there is slavery. 

Whether violence finds its expression in the circumstance 
that princes with their courtiers come, kill, and burn down 
villages, or in the fact that the slave-owners take labor or 
money for the land from their slaves, and enforce payment 
by means of armed men, or by putting taxes on others, and 
riding armed to and fro in the villages, or in the circumstance 
of a Home Department collecting money through governors 
and police sergeants, — in one word, as long as violence is 
maintained by the bayonet, there will be no distribution of 
wealth, but it will all be accumulated among the oppressors. 
As a striking illustration of the truth of this assertion, the 
project of Mr. George as to the nationalization of the land 
may serve ns. 

Mr. George proposes to recognize all the land as the prop- 
erty of the state, and therefore to substitute the land-rent 
for all the taxes direct and indirect. That is, that every one 
who utilizes the land would have to pay to the state the 
value of its rent. 

What would be the result? The land slavery would be 


WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 


115 


quite abolished within the limits of the state, and the land 
would belong to the state, — English land to England, Ameri- 
can to America, and so on ; so that tliei’e would be a slavery 
which would be determined by the quantity of utilized land. 
It might be that the condition of some laborers would im- 
prove ; but while a forcible demand for rent remained, the 
slavery would remain too. 

The laborer, after a bad harvest, being unable to pay the 
rent required from him, in order not to lose every thing and 
to retain the land, would be obliged to enslave himself to any 
one who happened to have the money. If a pail leaks, there 
must be a hole. On looking to the bottom of the pail, we 
may imagine that water runs from different holes ; but how- 
ever many imaginary holes we tried to stop from without, the 
water would not cease running. 

In ordei’ to put a stop to this leakage, we must find the 
place out of which water runs, and stop it from the inside. 
The same holds good with the proposed means of stopping 
the irregular distribution of wealth, — the holes through 
which the wealth runs away from the people. 

It is said. Organize workingmen’s corporations, make 
capital social pro[)ert3", make land social property. All this 
is onl}^ the mere stopping from the outside of those holes 
from which we fancy water runs a^va3^ In order to stop 
wealth going from the hands of workingmen to those of 
non-workingmen, it is necessary to try to find out from in- 
side the hole through wdiich this leakage takes place. This 
hole is the violence of armed over unarmed men, the violence 
of troops, by means of which men are carried aw\ay fiom 
their labor, and the land, and the productions of labor, taken 
aw a}’ from men. 

As long as there is an armed man with the acknowledg- 
ment of his right to kill another man, wdioever he may be, so 
long will there also exist an unjust distribution of wealth, — 
in other w^ords, slaveiy. 


XXII. 

I ALWAYS wonder at the often repeated words, “Yes, it is 
all true in theoiy, but how is it in practice?” As though 
this theory was a mere collection of good words, needful for 
conversation, and not as though all practice — that is, all 
activity of life — was inevitably based upou it. 


116 


WHAT MUST WE DO THEN f 


There must have been in the world an immense number of 
foolish theories, if men employed such wonderful reasoning. 

You know that theory is what a man thinks about a thing, 
and practice is what he does. How can it be that a man 
should think that he ought to act in one way, and then do 
quite the reverse? If the theory of baking bread consists in 
this, that first of all one must knead the dough, then put it 
by to rise, then any one knowing this would be a fool to do 
the reverse. But with us it has come into fashion to say, 
“All this is very well in theory, but how would it be in 
practice?” 

Jn all that has occupied me, practice has unavoidably fol- 
lowed theory, not mainly in order to justify it, but because 
it cannot help doing so : if I have understood the affair upon 
which I have meditated, I cannot help doing it in the way 
in which I have understood it. 

I wished to help the needy, only because I had money to 
spare ; and I shared the general superstition that money is 
the representative of labor, and, generally speaking, some- 
thing lawful and good in itself. But, having begun to give 
this money away, I saw that I was onl}" drawing bills of 
exchange collected by me from poor peo})le ; that 1 was 
doing the very thing the old landlords used to do in com- 
pelling some of their serfs to work for other serfs. 

1 saw that ever}^ use of money, whetlier buying any 
thing with it, or giving it away gratis, is a drawing of bills 
of exchange on poor people, or passing them to otliers to 
be drawn by tliem. And therefore 1 clearly nndeistood 
the foolishness of what I was doing, in helping the poor 
by exacting money from them. 

I saw that mone}" in itself was not only not a good thing, 
but obviously an evil one, depriving men of their chief 
good, labor, and the utilizing of their labor, and that this 
very good I cannot give to any one, because I am myself 
deprived of it : I have neither labor, nor the happiness of 
utilizing my. labor. 

It might be asked by some, “ AYhat is there so peculiarly 
important in abstractly discussing the meaning of money? ” 
But this argument which I have opened, is not merely for 
the sake of discussion, but in order to find an answer to 
the vital question, which had caused me so much suffering, 
and on which my life depended, in order to discover what 
1 was to do. 


WUAT MUST WE DO THEN f 


117 


As soon as 1 understood what riches are, what money 
is, at once it became plain and unquestionable to me what 
all men must do. In reality I merely came to realize what I 
have long known, — that truth which has been transmitted 
to men from the oldest times, by Buddha, by Isaiah, by 
Laotse, and by Socrates, and particularly clearly and defini- 
tively by Jesus Christ, and his predecessor John the 
Baptist. 

John the Baptist, in answer to men’s question, ‘AYhat 
shall we do then?” answered plainly and briefly, ‘‘He 
that hath two coats, let him impart to him that hath none ; 
and he that hath meat, let him do likewise” (Luke iii. 
10 , 11 ). 

The same thing, and with still greater clearness, said 
Christ, — blessing the poor, and uttering woes on the rich. 
He said that no man can serve God and mammon. 

He forbade his disciples not onl}^ to take money, but 
also to have two coats. He said to the rich 3 ’oung man 
that he could not enter into the kingdom of God, because 
he was rich, and that it is easier for a camel to go through 
the needle’s eye, than for a rich man to enter the kingdom 
of God. 

He said that he who would not leave every thing — his 
houses and children and his fields — in order to follow him, 
was not his disciple. He spoke a parable about a rich man 
who had done nothing wrong (like our own rich people), 
but merely dressed well, ate and drank well, yet by this 
lost his own soul ; and about a beggar named Lazarus, 
who had done nothing good, and who had saved his soul 
by his beggar’s life. 

This truth had long been known to me ; but the false 
teaching of the world had so cunningly hidden it, that it 
became a theory in the sense which men like to attach to 
this word, — that is, a pure abstraction. But as soon as I 
succeeded in pulling down in my consciousness the sophistry 
of the world’s teaching, then theory became one with 
practice, and the reality of my life became its unavoidable 
result. 

I understood that man, besides living for his own good, 
must work for the good of others ; that if we were to draw 
our comparison from the world of animals, as some men 
are so fond of doing in justifying violence and contest by 
the law of the struggle for existence, we must take this 


118 


WIIAT MUST WE DO THEN? 


comparison also from the lives of social animals like bees ; 
and therefore man, saying nothing of his love to his neigh- 
bors, incumbent upon him, as well by reason as by his 
very nature, is called upon to serve his fellows and their 
common object. 

I understood that this is the natural law of man, by 
fultilling which he can alone fulfil his calling, and therefore 
be happy. I understood that this law has been, and is 
being, violated by the fact that men by violence (as robl)er- 
bees) free themselves from labor, and utilize the labor of 
others, using this labor not for the common purpose, but 
for the personal satisfaction of their constantly increasing 
lusts, and also, like robber-bees, they perish thereby. I 
understood that the misfortune of men conies from the 
slavery in which some men are kept by others. I understood 
that this slavery is brought about in our days b}^ the violence 
of military force, by the appro[)riation of land, and by the 
exaction of money. 

And, having understood the meaning of all these three 
instruments of modern slavery, I could not help desiring to 
free myself from any share in it. 

When I was a landlord, possessing serfs, and came to 
understand the immorality of such a position, I, along with 
other men who had understood the same thing, tried to free 
myself from it. Failing to do so, I endeavored to assert my 
claims as a slave-owner as little as possible, and to live, and 
to let other people live, as if such claims did not exist, and 
at the same time, by trying evei-y means, to suggest to other 
slave-owners the unlawfulness and inhumanity of their im- 
aginaiy rights. 

I cannot help doing the same now with reference to exist- 
ent slavery ; that is, I try as little as possible to assert my 
claims while I am unable to free myself from such power 
of claim which gives me land-ownership and money, raised 
by the violence of military force, and at the same time by 
all means in my power to try^ to suggest to other men the 
unlawfulness and inhumanity of these imaginary rights. 

The sliare in enslaving men, from the stand-point of a 
slave-owner, consists in utilizing the labor of others : it is 
quite the same, whether the enslaving is based upon a claim 
to the person of the slave, or upon the possession of land 
or money. And therefore, if a man really does not like 
slavery, and does not desire to be a partaker in it, the first 


WHAT MUST WE DO THEN f 


119 


thing which he must do is this : neither utilize men’s labor 
b}’ serving the government, nor possess land or money. 

The refusal of all the means in use for utilizing another’s 
labor will unavoidably bring such a man to the necessity, on 
the one hand, of lessening his wants, and, on the other, of 
doing himself what formerly was done for him by others. 
And this so sim[)le inference at once puts an end to all three 
causes which prevent our helping the poor, which 1 discov- 
ered in seeking the cause of my non-success. 

The first cause was the accumulation of peo[)le in towns, 
and the absorption there of the productions of the country. 

All that a man needs is not to desire to utilize another’s 
labor by serving the government, possessing land and money, 
and then, according to his strength and ability, to satisfy 
unaided his own wants, and the idea of leaving his village 
would never enter his mind, because in the countr}^ it is easier 
for him personally to satisfy his wants, while in a town every 
thing is the production of the labor of others; in the coun- 
try a man will always be able to help the need\’, and will not 
experience that feeling of being useless, which I felt in the 
town when I wanted to help men, not with my own, but with 
other men’s labors. 

The second cause was the estrang*ement between the poor 
and the rich. A man need only not desire to utilize other 
men’s labor b}^ serving the government, possessing land and 
money, and he would be compelled himself to satisfy his 
wants, and at once involuntarily that barrier would be pushed 
down which separates him from the working-people, and he 
would be one with the people, standing slionlder to shoulder 
with them, and seeing the possibility of helping them. 

The third cause was shame, based upon the consciousness 
of the immorality of possessing money with which I wanted 
to help others. A mnn needs only not to desire to utilize 
another man’s labor by serving the government, possessing 
land and money, and he will never have that supei’llnous 
‘‘ fool’s money,” the fact of possessing which made those 
wdio wanted money ask me for pecuniary assistance, which I 
was not able to satisfy, and called forth in me the conscious- ' 
ness of my unrighteousness. 


120 


WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 


XXIII. 

I SAW that the cause of the sufferings and depravity of 
men lies in the fact that some men are in bondage to others ; 
and therefore I came to the obvious conclusion, that if I want 
to help men, I have first of all to leave off causing those very 
misfortunes which I want to remedy, — in other words, I 
must not share in the enslaving of men. 

I was led to the enslaving of men by the circumstance 
that from my infancy I had been accustomed not to work, 
but to utilize the labor of others, and I have been living in 
a society which is not only accustomed to this slavery, but 
justifies it by all kinds of sophistry, clever and foolish. 

I came to the following simple conclusion, that, in order 
to avoid causing the sulferings and depravity of men, I ought 
to make other men work for me as little as possible, and to 
work myself as much as possible. 

It was by this roundabout way that I arrived at the inevi- 
table conclusion to which the Chinese arrived some thousand 
years ago, and which they express thus: “ If there is one 
idle man, there must be another who is starving.” 

I came to that simple tind natural conclusion, that if I pity 
the exhausted horse on whose back I ride, the first thing for 
me to do, if I really pity him, is to get off him, and walk. 
This answer, which gives such complete satisfaction to the 
moral sense, has been always before my eyes, as it is before 
the eyes of every one, but we do not all see it. 

In seeking to heal our social diseases we look eveiy where, — ' 
in the governmental, anti-governmental, scientific, and phil- 
anthropic superstitions, — and yet we do not see that which 
meets the eyes of every one. We fill our drains with filth, 
and require other men to clean them, and pretend to be very 
sorry for them, and we want to ease their work, and are in- 
venting all sorts of devices except one, the simplest ; namely, 
that we should ourselves remove our slops so long as we find 
it necessaiT to produce them in our rooms. 

For one who really suffers from the sufferings of other 
men surrounding him, there exists a most clear, simple, and 
easy means, the only one sufficient to heal this evil, and to 
confer a sense of the lawfulness of one’s life. This moans is 
that which John the Baptist recommended when he answered 
the question, What shall we do then?” and which was 


WIIAT MUST WE DO THEN? 


121 


confirmed by Christ, not to have more than one coat, and 
not to possess money, — that is, not to profit by another man’s 
labor ; and in order not to utilize another’s labor, we must do 
with our own hands all that we can do. This is so plain and 
simple ! But this is plain and simple and clear, only when 
our wants are also plain, and when we ourselves are still 
sound, and not corrupted to the backbone by idleness and 
laziness. 

1 live in a village, lie by the stove, and tell my neighbor, 
who is my debtor, to light it. It is obvious that I am lazy, 
take my neighbor away from his own work, and I at last feel 
ashamed of it ; and besides, it grows dull for me to be alwa^^s 
lying dovvn when my muscles are strong, and accustomed to 
work, and 1 go to fetch the wood myself. 

But slavery of all kinds has been going on so long, so 
many ailificial wants have grown about it, so many peo|)le 
with different degrees of familiarity with these wants are in- 
terwoven one with anothei’, through so many generations 
men have been spoiled and made effeminate, such compli- 
cated temi)tations and justifications of luxiny and idleness 
have been invented by men, that for one who stands on the 
to[) of the pyramid of idle men, it is not at all so easy to 
understand his sin as it is for the peasant, who compels his 
neighbor to light his stove. 

Men who stand at the to]) find it most difficult to under- 
stand what is required of them. They become giddy from 
the height of the structure of lies on which they stand when 
they look at that s[)ot on the earth to which they must de- 
scend, in order to begin to live, not righteously, but only not 
quite inhumanl}’ ; and that is why this plain and clear truth 
appears to these men so stiange. 

A man who employs ten servants in livery, coachmen and 
cooks, who has pictures and pianos, must certainly regard 
as strange and even ridiculous the simple preliminary (luty 
of, I do not say a good man, l)ut of every man who is not a 
beast, to hew that wood with which his food is cooked and 
by which he is warmed ; to clean those boots in which he 
carelessly stepped into the mud ; to bring that water with 
which he keei)S himself clean, and to carry away those slops 
in which he has washed himself. 

But besides the estrangement of men from the truth, there 
is another cause which hinders men from seeing the duty of 
doing the most simple and natural physical work ; that is 


122 


WHAT MUST WE 1)0 THEN? 


the complicity and interweaving of the conditions in which a 
rich man lives. 

This morning I entered the corridor in which the stoves are 
heated. A peasant was heating the stove which warmed my 
son’s room. I entered his l)edroom : he was asleep, and it 
was eleven o’clock in the morning. The excuse was, ‘‘To- 
day is a holiday ; no lessons.” A stout lad of eighteen years 
of age, having over-eaten himself the previous night, is sleep- 
ing until eleven o’clock ; and a peasant of his age, who had 
already that morning done a quantity of work, was now light- 
ing the tenth stove. “ It would be better, perhaps, if the 
l)easant did not light the stove to warm this stout, laz}" fel- 
low ! ” thought 1 ; but I remembered at once that this stove 
also warmed the room of our housekeeper, a woman of forty 
years of age, who had been working the niglit before till 
three o’clock in the morning, to pre[)are every thing for the 
supper which my son ate ; and then she put away the dishes, 
and, notwithstanding this, got up at seven. 

She cannot heat the stove herself : she has no time for 
that. The peasant is heating the stove for her too. And 
under her name my lazy fellow was being warmed. 

True, the advantages of all are interwoven ; but without 
much consideration the conscience of each will sa}^ On whose 
side is the labor, and on whose the idleness? But not only 
does conscience tell this, the account-book also tells it : the 
more money one spends, the more people work. The less 
one spends, the more one works one’s selB My luxurious life 
gives means of living to others. Where should my old 
footman go, if 1 were to discliarge him? What! every one 
must do every thing for himself? Make liis coat as well as 
hew his wood? And how about division of labor? And 
industry and social undertakings? And, last of all, come 
the most horrible of words, — civilization, science, art! 


XXIV. 

Last March I was returning home late in the evening. 
On turning into a by-lane, I perceived on the snow, in a 
distant field, some black shadow^s. I should not have noticed 
this, but for the policeman, who stood at the end of the lane, 
and cried in the direction of the shadows, “ Vasili, why 
don’t 3 "ou come along? ” 


WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 


123 


“ She won’t move,” answered a voice ; and thereupon tlie 
shadows came towards the policeman. I stopped and asked 
him, — 

“■ What is the matter?” 

He said, “ We have got some girls from Rzhanoff’s house, 
and are taking them to the police-station ; and one of them 
lags behind, and won’t come along.” 

A night-watchman in sheepskin coat appeared now, leading 
a girl, who slouched along, while he prodded her from 
behind. I, the watchman and the policeman, were wearing 
winter-coats : she alone had none, having only her gown on. 
In the dark, I could distinguish only a brown dress, and 
a kerchief I’ound her head and neck. She was short, like 
most starvelings, and had a broad, clumsy figure. 

We aren’t going to stay here all night for you, you hag ! 
Get on, or I’ll give it you ! ” shouted the iioliceman. He 
was evidently fatigued, and tired of her. She walked some 
paces, and sto[)ped again. 

1110 old watchman, a good-natured man (I knew him), 
pulled her by the hand. “ I’ll wake you up ! come along ! ” 
said he, pretending to be angry. She staggered, and began 
to S[)eak, with a creaking, hoarse voice, ‘"Let me be; 
don’t yon push. I’ll get on mvself.” 

“ You’ll be frozen to death,” he returned. 

“ A girl like me won’t be frozen : I’ve lots of hot blood.” 

She meant it as a joke, but her words. sounded like a curse. 
By a lamp, which stood not far from the gate of my house, 
she sto[)ped again, leaned back against the paling, and began 
to seek for something among her petticoats with awkward, 
frozen hands. They again shouted to her ; but she only 
muttered, and continued searching. She held in one hand a 
crumpled cigarette, and matches in the other. I remained 
behind her : I was ashamed to pass by, or to stay and look 
at her. I>ut I made up my mind, and came up to her. She 
leaned with her shoulder against the [)aling, and vainly tried 
to light a match on it. 

I looked narrowly at her face. She was indeed a starv^eling, 
and appeared to me to be a woman of about thirty. Her 
complexion was dirty ; her eyes small, dim, and bleared with 
drinking; she had a squat nose; her lips were wry and 
slavering, wdth downcast angles ; from under her kerchief 
fell a tuft of dry hair. Her figure was long and flat; her 
arms and legs short. 


124 


WIIAT MUST WE DO THEN? 


I stopped in front of her. She looked at me and smiled, 
as if she knew all that I was thinking about. I felt that I 
ought to say something to her. I wanted to show her that 
I pitied her. 

“‘Have 3 ’ou parents?” I asked. She laughed hoarsely, 
then suddenly stopped, and, lifting her brows, began to look 
at me steadfastly. 

“ Have you parents?” I repeated. 

She smiled with a grimace which seemed to say, “ What 
a (piestion for him to put ! ” 

“ I have a mother,” she said at last ; “ but what’s that to 
you? ” 

“ And how old are you? ” 

“ I am over lifteen,” said she, at once answering a ques- 
tion she was accustomed to hear. 

“ Come, come ! go on ; we shall all be frozen for you ; the 
deuce take you ! ” shouted the policeman ; and she edged off 
from the paling, and staggered on along the lane to the police- 
station : and 1 turned to the gate, and entered my house, and 
asked whether my daughters were at home. 1 was told that 
they had been to an evening part^g had enjo^’ed themselves 
much, and now were asleep. 

The next morning I was about to go to the police-station 
to inquire what had become of this unhapp}^ girl ; and I was 
ready to start early enough, when one of those unfortunate 
men called, who from weakness have dropped out of the 
gentlemanly line of life to which they have been accustomed, 
and who rise and fall by turns. 1 had been acquainted with 
him three v^ears. During this time he had several times sold 
eveiT thing he had, — even his clothes; and, having just 
done so again, he passed his nights temporarily in Rzhanoff’s 
house, and his days at my lodgings. He met me as I was 
going out, and, without listening to me, began at once to tell 
me what had hai)pened at Rzhanoff’s house the night before. 

He began to relate it, yet had not got through one-half 
when, all of a sudden, he, an old man, who had gone through 
much in his life, began to sob, and, ceasing to speak, 
turned his face away from me. This was what he related. 
I ascertained the truth of his story on the spot, where 1 
learned some new particulars, which I shall relate too. 

A washerwoman thirty years of age, fair, quiet, good-look- 
ing, but delicate, passecl her nights in that night-lodging on 
the ground-floor in No. 32, where my friend slept among 


WHAT MUST WE BO THEN? 125 

various sliifting night-lodgers, men and women, who for five 
kopeks slei)t with each other. 

The landlady at this lodging was the mistress of a boat- 
man. In Slimmer her lover kept a boat ; and in winter they 
earned their living by letting lodgings to night-lodgers at 
three kopeks without a pillow, and at live koiieks with one. 

The washerwoman had been living here some months, 
and was a quiet woman ; but lately they began to object to 
her because she coughed, and prevented the other lodgers 
from sleeping. An old woman in [larticular, eight}’ years 
old, half silly, and also a permanent inrnnte of this lodging, 
began to dislike the washerwoman, and kept annoying her, 
liecause she disturbed her sleep ; for all night she coughed like 
a sheep. 

The washerwoman said nothing. She owed for rent, and 
felt herself guilty, and was therefore compelled to endure. She 
began to work less and less, for her strength failed her ; and 
that was why she was unable to pay her rent. She had not 
been to work at all the whole of the last week ; and she had 
been making the lives of all, and particularly of the old 
woman, miserable by her cough. 

Four days ago the landlady gave her notice to leave. She 
already owed sixty kopeks, and could not pay them, and there 
was no hope of doing so ; and other lodgers complained of her 
cough. 

When the landlady gave the washerwoman notice, and told 
her she must go away if she did not pa}’ the rent, the old 
woman was glad, and pushed her out into the yard. The 
washerwoman went away, but came back again in an hour, 
and the landlady had not the heart to send her away again. 
. . . During the second and the third day the landlady left 
her there. “ Where shall I go?” she kept saying. On the 
third day, the landlady’s lover, a Moscow man, who knew 
all the rules and regulations, went for a policeman. The 
policeman, with a sword and a pistol slung on a red cord, 
came into the lodging, and quietly and politely turned the 
washerwoman out into the street. 

It was a bright, sunny, but frosty day in IVIarch. The 
melting snow ran down in streams, the house-porters were 
breaking the ice. The hackney sledges bumped on the ice- 
glazed snow, and creaked over the stones. The washer- 
woman went up the hill on the sunny side, got to the church, 
and sat down in the sun at the cliurch-porch. But when the 


126 


WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 


sun began to go down behind the houses, and the pools of 
watrr began to be covered over with a thin sheet of ice, the 
washerwoman felt chilly and terrilied. IShe got u[) and 
slowly walked on. . . . Where? Home, — to the only house 
in which she had been living lately. 

While she was walking there, several times resting herself, 
it began to get dark. IShe approached the gate, turned into 
it, her foot slipped, she gave a shriek, and fell down. 

One man passed b}', then another. “ She mu^t be drunk,” 
they thought. Anotliei’ man [)assed, and stumbled up against 
her, and said to the house-porter, “ Some tipsy woman is 
lying at the gate. I very nearly broke my neck over her. 
Won’t you take her away ? ” 

The house-poiter came. The washerwoman was dead. 
Such was what my friend related to. me. 

The reader will perhaps fancy 1 have picked out particular 
cases in the prostitute of fifteen years of age and the stoiy 
of this washerwoman ; but let him not think so : this really 
happened in one and the same night. I do not exactly re- 
member the date, only it was in March, 1884. 

Having heard my friend’s story, I went to the police-sta- 
tion, intending from there to go to Rzhanoff’s house to learn 
all the [)articulars of the washerwoman’s story. 

The weather was fine and sunny ; and again under the ice 
of the previous night, in the shade, you could see the water 
running ; and in the sun, in the square, every thing was melt- 
ing fast. The trees of the garden appeared blue from ov'er 
the river; the sparrows that were reddish in winter, and un- 
noticed then, now attracted people’s attention their mer- 
riness ; men also tried to be merry, but they all had too many 
cares. The bells of the clmrches sounded ; and blending with 
them from the barracks were heard sounds of shooting, — the 
hiss of the rifle-balls, and the crack when they struck the 
target. 

1 entered the police-station. There some armed men — 
policemen — led me to their chief. He, also armed with a 
sword, sabre, and pistol, was busy giving some orders about 
a ragged, trembling old man who was standing before him, 
and from weakness could not clearly answer what was asked 
of him. Having done with the old man, he turned to me. I 
inquired about the girl of last night. He first listened to me 
attentively, then he smiled, not only because I did not know 
why they were taken to the police-station, but more partieu- 


WHAT MUST WE BO THEN? 


127 


larly at my iistoiiisliment at her 3 ^outh. “Goodness! there 
are some of twelve, thirteen, and fourteen years of age 
often,” said he, in a lively tone. 

To my question about my friend of yesterday, he told me 
that she had probably been already sent to the committee (if 
I understood him right) . To my question where such passed 
the night, he gave a vague answer. The one about whom 
1 spoke, he did not remember. There were so many of them 
every da^n 

At Uzhanoff’s house, in No. 32, I alread}^ found the clerk 
reading prayers over the dead laundry- woman. She had 
been brought in and laid on her former pallet ; and the 
lodgers, all starvelings themselves, contributed money for 
the pra^'ers, the coffin, and the shroud ; the old woman had 
dressed her, and laid her out. The clerk was reading 
something in the dark ; a woman in a cloak stood holding 
a wax taper ; and with a similar wax taper stood a man 
(a gentleman, it is fair to state), in a nice great-coat, ti’immed 
with an Astrachan collar, in bright goloshes, and he had 
on a starched shirt. That was her brother. He had been 
hunted up. 

I passed by the dead to the landladj^’s room, in order to 
ask her all the particulars. She was afraid of my questions, 
— afi-aid probabl}' of being charged with something; but by 
and by she grew talkative, and told me ail. On passing by 
again, I looked at the dead body. All the dead are beauti- 
ful ; but this one was })articnlarh^ so, and touching in her 
coffin, with her clear, pale face, with closed, swollen eyes, 
sunken cheeks, and fair, soft hair over her high forehead ; 
her face looked weary, but kind, and not sad at all, but 
rather astonished. And indeed, if the living do not see, the 
dead may well be astonished. 

On the day 1 wrote this, there was a great ball in Moscow. 
On the same night I left home after eight o’clock. 1 live in 
a locality surrounded b}’ factories ; and 1 left home after the 
factory whistle had sounded, and when, after a week of in- 
cessant work, people were freed for their holiday. Factory- 
men passed b^^ me, and I by them, all turning their steps to 
the public-houses and inns. Many were already tipsy : many 
more were with women. 

Every morning at five I hear each of the whistles, which 
means that the labor of women, children, and old people has 
begun. At eight o’clock another whistle, — this means half 


128 


WIIAT MUST WE DO THEN? 


an hour’s rest ; at twelve the third whistle, — this means an 
hour for dinner. At eight o’clock the fourth whistle, indi- 
cating cessation from work. By a strange coincidence, all 
the tliree factories in my neighborhood produce only the 
articles necessary for balls. 

In one factory, — the one nearest to me, — the}" make 
nothing but stockings ; in the other opposite, silk stutfs ; in 
the tliird, perfumes and pomades. 

One may, on hearing these whistles, attach to them no other 
meaning than that of the indication of time. “There, the 
whistle has sounded : it is time to go out for a walk.” 

But one may associate with them also the meaning they in 
reality have, — that at the first whistle at five o’clock in the 
morning, men and women, who have slept side by side in a 
damp cellar, get up in the dark, and hurry away into the 
noisy building, and take their part in a work of which they 
see neither cessation nor utility for themselves, and work 
often so in the heat, in sulfocating exhalations, with very 
rare intervals of rest, for one, two, or three, or even twelve 
and more hours. They fall asleep, and get up again, and 
again do this work, meaningless for themselves, to which 
they are coini)elled exclusively by want. And so it goes on 
from one week to another, interrupted only l)y holidays. 

And now 1 saw these w^orking-people freed for one of 
these holidays. They go out into the street : everywhere 
there ai'e inns, public-houses, and gay women. And they, in 
a drunken state, i)ull each other by the arms, and carry along 
with them girls like the one whom 1 saw conducted to the 
police-station : they hire hackney-coaches, and ride and walk 
from one inn to another, and abuse each other, and totter 
about, and say they know not what. 

Formerly, when I saw the factory people knocking about 
in this way, I used to turn aside with disgust, and almost 
1 ‘eproached them ; but since I hear these daily whistles, and 
know what they mean, I am. only astonished that all these 
men do not come into the condition of utter beggars, with 
whom Moscow is filled ; and the women into the position of 
the girl whom I had met near my house. 

Thus I walked on, looking at these men, observing how 
they went about the streets till eleven o’clock. Then their 
movements became quieter : there remained here and there 
a few ti[)sy people, and I met some men and w^omen who 
were being conducted to the police-station. And now, from 


WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 


129 


every side, carriages appeai’ed, all going in one direction. On 
the coach-box sat a coachman, sometimes in a sheepskin 
coat; and a footman, — a dandy with a cockade. Well-fed 
trotters, covered with cloth, ran at the rate of fifteen miles an 
hour: in the carriages sat ladies wrapped in shawls, and 
taking great care not to spoil their flowers and their toilets. 
All, beginning with the harness on the horses, carriages, 
gutta-percha wheels, the cloth of the coachman’s coat, down 
to the stockings, shoes, flowers, velvet, gloves, scents, — all 
these articles have been made by those men, some of whom 
fell asleep on their own pallets in their mean rooms, some in 
night-houses with prostitutes, and others in the police- 
station. 

The ball-goers drive past these men, in and with things 
made by them ; and it does not even enter into their minds 
that there could possilfly be any connection between the ball 
they are going to and these tipsy peo[)le, to whom their 
coachmen shout out so angrily. With quite easy minds, and 
assurance that they are doing nothing wrong, the}’ enjoy 
themselves at the ball. 

Enjoy themselves ! 

From eleven o’clock in the evening till six in the morning, 
in the very depth of the night, while with empty stomachs 
men are lying in night-lodgings, or dying as the washer- 
woman had done ! 

The enjoyment of the ball consists in women and girls 
uncovering their bosoms, putting on artificial protuberances, 
and altogether getting themselves up in a way that no girl and 
no woman who is not yet depraved would, on any account, 
appear before men ; and in this half-naked condition, with 
uncovered bosoms, and arms bare up to the shoulders, with 
dresses puffed behind and tight round the hips, in the bright- 
est liglit, women and girls, whose first virtue has always been 
modesty, appear among strange men, who are also dressed 
in indecently tight-fitting clothes, and with them, to the 
sound of exciting music, embrace each other, and i)ivot round 
and round. Old women, often also half naked like the 
younger ones, are sitting looking on, and eating and drink- 
ing : the old men do tlie same. No wonder it is done at 
night, when every one else is sleeping, so that no one may 
see it ! 

But this is not done in order to hide it; there is nothing 
indeed to hide ; all is very nice and good ; and by this 


130 


WUAT MUST WE BO THEN? 


enjoyment, in wliich is swallowed np the painful labor of 
thousands, not only is nobody harmed, but by this very thing 
poor people are fed I The ball goes on very merrily, may 
be, but how did it come to do so? When we see in society 
or among ourselves one who has not eaten, or is cold, we are 
ashamed to enjoy ourselves, and cannot begin to be merry 
until he is fed, saying nothing of the fact that we cannot 
imagine that there are such people who can enjo}' themselves 
by means of any thing which produces the sutferings of 
others. 

We are disgusted, and we do not understand the enjoy- 
ment of naughty boys who have squeezed a dog’s tail into a 
piece of split wood. How is it, then, that in our enjoy- 
ments we become blind, and do not see that cleft in which 
we have pinched those men who suffer for our enjoyment? 

We know that each woman at this ball whose dress costs a 
hundred and fifty rubles was not born at the ball, but she 
has lived also iu the country, has seen peasants, knows her 
own nurse and maid, whose fathers and brothers are poor, 
for w'hom earning one hundred and fifty rubles to build a cot- 
tage with is the end and aim of a long, laborious life ; she 
knows this ; how can she, then, enjoy herself, knowing that 
on her half-naked body she is wearing the cottage which is 
the dream of her housemaid’s brother? 

But let us suppose she has not thought about this : she 
cannot help knowing that velvet and silk, sweetmeats and 
flowers, and laces and dresses, do not grow of themselves, but 
are made by men. 

It would seem she could not help knowing that men make 
all this, and under what circumstances, and why. She can- 
not help knowing that her dressmaker, whom she has been 
scolding to-day, has made this dress not at all out of love 
to her, therefore she cannot help knowing that all these 
things were made — her laces, flowers, and velvet — from 
sheer want. 

But perhaps slie is so blinded that she does not think of 
all this. Well, but, at all events, she could not help know- 
ing that five people, old, respectable, often delicate men and 
women, have not sle[)t all night, and have been busy on her 
account. This, also, she could not help knowing, — that on 
this night there were twenty-eight degrees of fixJst, and that 
her coachman — ‘ an old man — was sitting in this frost all 
night, upon his coach-box. 


WUAT MUST WE BO THEN? 


131 


If these 3^onng women nud girls, from the h3’pnotie influ- 
ence of tlie ball, fail to see all this, we cannot judge them. 
Poor things ! they consider all to be good which is pro- 
nounced so by their elders. How do these elders explain 
their cruelt3^? 'I'liey, indeed, always answer in the same 
way : ‘‘I compel no one ; what 1 have, 1 have bought ; foot- 
men, chambermaids, coachman, I hire. There is no harm 
in engaging and in buying. 1 compel none ; I hire ; what 
wrong is there in that? ” 

Some days ago I called on a friend. Passing through the 
first room, I wmndered at seeing at a table two females, for I 
knew my acquaintance was a bachelor. A skinny, vellow, 
elderly-looking woman, about thirty, with a kerchief thrown 
over her shoulder, was briskly doing something over the table 
with her hands, jerking nervousl3’, as if in a fit. Opposite to 
her sat a little girl, who was also doing something, jerking in 
the same way. They both seemed to be suffering from St. 
Vitus’s dance. I came nearer and looked closer to see what 
they were about. 

The3' glanced up at me, and then continued their work as 
attentively as before. 

Before them were spread tobacco and cigarettes. They 
were making cigarettes. The woman rubbed the tobacco fine 
between the palms of her hands, caught it up by a machine, 
put on the tubes, and threw them to the girl. The girl folded 
the papers, put them over the cigarette, threw it aside, and 
took u[) another. 

All this was performed with such speed, wdth such dex- 
terity, that it was impossible to describe it. I expressed my 
wonder at their quickness. I have been at this business 
fourteen years,” said the woman. 

Is it hard work? ” 

“ Yes : my chest aches, and the air is choky with tobacco.” 

But it was not necessary for her to have said so : you need 
only have looked at her or at the girl. The lattei* had been 
at this business three years ; but any one not seeing her at 
this work would have said that she had a strong constitution, ^ 
which was already beginning to be broken. 

My acquaintance, a kind-hearted man of liberal views, 
hired these women to make him cigarettes at two rubles and 
a half a thousand. He has money, and he pays it away for 
this work : what harm is there in it? 

My' acquaiutance gets up at twelve. His evenings, from 


132 


WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 


six to two, he spends at cards or at the piano ; he eats and 
drinks ; other people do all the work for him. He has de- 
vised for himself a new pleasure, — smoking. I can remem- 
ber when he began to smoke. Here are a woman and a girl, 
who scarcely earn their living by transforming themselves 
into machines, and pass all their lives in breathing tobacco, 
thus ruining their lives. He has money which he has not 
earned, and he prefers playing at cards to making cigai'ettes 
for himself. He gives these women money, only under the 
condition that they continue to live as miserabl}' as the}’ have 
been living, in making cigarettes for him. 

I am fond of cleanliness ; and 1 give money, only under the 
condition that the washerwoman washes my shirts, which I 
change twice a day ; and the washing of these shirts having 
taxed the utmost strength of the washerwoman, she has died. 

What is wrong in this? 

Men who buy and hire will continue doing so whether I do, 
or do not ; they will force other people to make velvets and 
dainties, and will buy them whether I do, or do not ; so also 
they will hire people to make cigarettes and to wash shirts. 
Why should I, then, deprive myself of velvets, sweetmeats, 
cigarettes, and clean shirts, when their production is already 
set in going. 

A crowd, maddened with the passion of destruction, will 
employ this very reasoning. It leads a pack of dogs, when 
one of their number runs against another and knocks it down, 
to attack it and tear it to pieces. Others have already be- 
gun, hav’e done a little mischief ; why shouldn’t I, too, do the 
same? What can it possibl}’ signify if I wear a dirty shirt, 
and make my cigarettes myself? Could that help any one? 
Ask men who desire to justify themselves. 

Had we not wandered so far from truth, it would be need- 
less to answer this question ; but we are so entangled that 
such a question seems natural to us, and, therefore, though I 
feel ashamed, I must answer it. 

What ditference would it be if I should wear my shirt a 
week instead of one day, and make my cigarettes myself, or 
leave off smoking altogether? 

The difference would be this, — that a certain washerwoman, 
and a certain cigarette-maker, would exert themselves less, 
and what I gave formerly for the washing of my shirt, ai d 
for the making of my cigarettes, I may give now to that or 
to another woman ; and working-people who arc tired by their 


WHAT MUST WE BO THEN f 


133 


work, instead of overworking themselves, will be able to rest 
and to have tea. But I have heard objections to this, so 
averse are the rich and the luxurious to understand their 
position. 

They reply, “ If I should wear dirty linen, leave off smok- 
ing, and give this money away to the poor, then this money 
would be all the same taken away from them, and my drop 
will not help to swell the sea.” 

I am still more ashamed to answer such a reply, but at the 
same time I must do so. If I came among savages who 
gave me chops which I thought delicious, but the next day I 
learned (perhaps saw myself) that these delicious chops 
were made of a human prisoner who had been slain in order 
to make them ; and if I think it bad to eat men, however de- 
licious the cutlets may be. and however general the custom 
to eat men among the persons with whom 1 live, and however 
small the utility to the prisoners who have been prepared for 
food my refusal to eat them may be, I shall not and can not 
eat them. 

Maybe I shall eat human flesh when urged by hunger ; but 
I shall not make a feast of it, and shall not take part in 
feasts with human flesh, and shall not seek such feasts, and 
be proud of my partaking of them. 


XXV. 


But what is to be done, then ? Is it we who are to blame? 
And if not, who is? 

AVe say. It is not we who have done all this ; it has been 
done of itself ; as children say when they break any thing, 
that it broke itself. We say that, as towns are already in 
existence, we, who are living there, must feed men by 
buying their labor. But that is not true. It need only be 
observed how we live in the country, and how we feed peo- 
ple there. 

Winter is over : Easter is past. In town the same or- 
gies of the rich go on, — on the boulevards, in gardens, in 
the parks, on the river, music, theatres, riding, illuminations, 
fire-works ; but in the countiy it is still better, — the air 
is purer; the trees, the meadows, the flowers, are fresher. 
AVe must go where all is budding and blooming. And now 
the majority of rich people, who utilize other men’s labor, 


134 


WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 


go into the country to breathe the purer air, to look at the 
meadows and woods. And here in the conntiy among 
hiiinhle villagers, who feed upon bread and onions, work 
eighteen hours every day, and have neither sntlicient sleep 
nor clothes, rich people take up their abode. No one temi)ts 
these people : here are no factories, and no idle hands, of 
which there are so man}' in town, and which we imagine 
we feed by giving them work to do. Here people never 
can do their own work in time during the summer ; and not 
only are there no idle hands, but much property is lost for 
want of hands ; and an immense number of men, children, 
old people, and women with child, overwork themselves. 

How, then, do rich people order their lives here? Thus: 
If there happens to be an old mansion, built in the time of 
the serfs, then this house is renewed and embellished : if 
there is not, one is built of two or three stories. The rooms, 
which are from twelve to twenty and more in number, are 
all about sixteen feet high. The floors are inlaid ; in the 
windows are put single panes of glass, expensive carpets 
on the floors ; exi)ensive furniture is procured, — a sideboard, 
for instance, costing from twenty to sixty pounds. Near 
the mansion, roads are made; flower-beds are laid out; 
there are croquet-grounds, giant-strides, reflect ing-globes, 
conservatories, and hot-houses, and always luxurious stal)les. 
All is painted in colors, prepared with the very oil which 
old people and children lack for their porridge. If a rich 
man can afford it, he buys such a house for himself ; if he 
cannot, he hires one : but however poor and however liberal 
a man of our circle may be, he always takes up his abode 
in the countiy in such a house, for building and keeping 
which it is necessary to take away dozens of working- people 
who have not enough time to do their own business in the 
field in order to earn their living. 

Here we cannot say that factories are already in existence 
and will continue so, whether we make use of their work 
or no ; we cannot say that we are feeding idle hands ; here 
we plainly establish the factories for making things neces- 
sary for us, and simply make use of the surrounding people ; 
we divert the people from work necessary for them, as 
for us and for all, and by such system deprave some, and 
ruin the lives and the health of others. 

There lives, let us say, in a village, an educated and 
respectable family of the upper class, or that of a govern- 


WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 


135 


mcnt officer. All the members of it and the visitors assem- 
ble towards the middle of June, because up to June they 
had been studying and passing their examinations : the^^ 
assemble when mowing begins, and they stay until Septem- 
ber, until tlie harvest and sowing time. The members of 
the ffimily (as almost all men of this class) remain in tlie 
country from the beginning of the urgent work, — harvest- 
time, — not to the end of it, indeed, because in September 
the sowing goes on, and the digging up of potatoes, but till 
labor begins to slacken. During all the time of their stay, 
around them and close by, the i)easants’ summer work has 
been proceeding, the strain of which, however much we may 
have heard or read of it, however much we may have looked 
at it, we can form no adequate idea without having experi- 
enced it ourselves. 

And the members of the family, about ten persons, have 
been living as they did in town, if possible still worse than 
in town, because here in the village they are supposed to 
be resting (after doing nothing), and offer no pretence in 
the way of work, and no excuse for their idleness. 

In the middle of the summer, when people are forced from 
want to feed on kvas, and bread and onions, begins the 
mowing-time. Gentlefolks, who live in the countrv, see 
this labor, partly order it, partl3' admire it ; enjoy the smell 
of the drying hny, the sound of women’s songs, the noise of 
the sc^ffhes, and the sight of the rows of mowers, and of the 
women raking. They see this as well near their house as 
when they, with 3"oung people and children, who do nothing 
all the day long, drive well-fed horses a distance of a few 
hundred yards to the bathing-place. 

The w'ork of mowing is one of the most important in the 
world. Nearly every year, from want of hands and of time, 
the meadows remain half cut, and may remain so till the 
rains begin ; so that the degree of intensity of the labor 
decides the question whether twenty or more per cent will be 
added to the stores of men, or whether this hay will be left 
to rot and spoil while yet uncut. 

And if there is more hay, there will be also more meat for 
old people, and milk for children ; thus matters stand in gen- 
eral ; but in particular for each mower here is decided the 
question of bread and milk for himself, and for his children 
during the wintei*. 

Each of the woi'king-pcople, male and female, knows it: 


136 


WIIAT MUST WE DO THEN? 


even the children know that this is an important business, 
and that one ought to work with all one’s strengtli, carry a 
jug with kvas for the father to the mowing-place, and, shift- 
ing it from one hand to another, run barefoot as quickly as 
possible, a distance of pei’haps a mile and a half from the 
village, in order to be in time for dinner, that father may not 
grumble. Every one knows, that, from the mowing to the 
harvest, there will be no interruption of laboi', and no time 
for rest. And besides mowing, each has some other business 
to do, — to plough up new land, and to harrow it ; the women 
have cloth to make, bread to bake, and the washing to do ; and 
the peasants must drive to the mill and to market ; they have 
the official affairs of their community to attend to ; they 
have also to i)rovide the local government officials with means 
of locomotion, and to pass the night in the fields with the 
pastured horses. 

All, old and 3"Oung and sick, work with all their strength. 

The peasants work in such a way, that, when cutting the 
last rows, the mowers, weak people, growing youths, old men, 
are so tired, that, having rested a little, it is with great pain 
they begin anew : the women, often with child, work hard 
too. 

It is a strained, incessant labor. All work to the utmost 
of their strength, and use not onl\’ all their provisions, but 
what they have in store : during harvest-time all the peasants 
grow thinner, although they never were very stout. 

There is a small company laboring in the hnyfield, three 
peasants, — one of them an old man ; another his nephew, who 
is married ; and the third the village bootmaker, a thin, wiry 
man. Their mowing this morning decides their fate for the 
coming winter, whether they will be able to keep a cow and 
pay taxes. This is their second week’s work. The rain 
hindered them for a while. After the rain had left off, and 
the water had dried up, they decided on making hayricks ; 
and in order to do it quicker, they decided that two women 
must rake to each scythe. With the old man came out his 
wife, fifty years of age, worn out with labor and the bearing 
of eleven cliildren, deaf, but still strong enough for work ; 
and his daugliter, thirteen years of age, a short but brisk 
and strong little girl. 

With the nephew came his wife, — a tall woman, as strong 
as a peasant; and liis sister-in-law, — a soldier’^ wife, who 
was with child. With the bootmaker came his wife, — a 


WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 137 

strong working- woman ; and her mother, — an old woman 
about eight}', who for the rest of the year used to beg. 

They all draw up in a line, and work from morning to 
evening in the burning sun of June. It is steaming hot, and 
a thunder-shower is threatening. Every moment of work is 
precious. They have not wished to leave olf working, even 
in order to fetch water or kvas. A small boy, the grandson 
of the old woman, brings them water. The old woman is 
evidently anxious only on one point, — not to be obliged to 
cease working. kShe does not let the rake out of her hands, 
and moves ab^out with great difficulty. The little boy, quite 
bent under the jug with water, heavier than he himself, walks 
with short steps on his bare feet, and carries the jug, with 
many shifts. The little girl takes on her shoulders a load of 
hay, which is also heavier than herself ; walks a few paces, 
and stops, then throws it down, having no strength to carry 
it farther. The old man’s wife rakes together unceasingly, 
her kerchief loosened from her disordered hair ; she carries 
the hay, breathing heavily, and staggering under the burden : 
the cobbler’s mother is only raking, but this also is beyond 
her strength ; she slowly drags her ill-shod feet, and looks 
gloomily before her, like one at the point of death. The old 
man purposely sends her far away from the others, to rake 
about the ricks, in order that she may not attempt to com- 
pete with them ; but she does not leave off worldng, but 
continues with the same dead, gloomy face as long as the 
others. 

The sun is already setting behind the wood, and the ricks 
are not yet in order : there is much still to be done. 

All feel that it is time to leave off working, but no one 
says so ; each waiting for the other to suggest it. At last, 
the bootmaker, realizing that he has no more strength left, 
])roposes to the old man to leave the ricks till to-morrow, and 
the old man agrees to it ; and at once the women go to fetch 
their clothes, their jugs, their pitchfoi-ks ; and the old woman 
sits down where she was standing, and then lays herself 
down with the same fixed stare on her face. But as the ' 
women go away, she gets up groaning, and, crawling along, 
follows them. 

Let us turn to the country-house. The same evening, 
when from the side of the village were heard the rattle of the 
scythes of the toil-worn mowers who were returning from 
work, the sounds of the hammer against the anvil, the cries 


138 


WUAT MUST WE BO THEN? 


of women and girls who had just had time to put away their 
rakes, and were already running to drive the cattle in, — with 
these blend other sounds from the countiy-house. Drill, 
drin, drin ! goes the piano ; a Hungarian song is heard 
through the noise of the croquet-balls ; before the stable an 
open carriage is standing, harnessed with four fat horses, 
which has been hired for twenty shillings to bring some 
guests a distance of ten miles. 

Horses standing by the carriage rattle their little bells. 
Before them hay has been thrown, which they are scattering 
with their hoofs, the same hay which the peasants have been 
gathering with such hard labor. In the yard of this mansion 
there is movement ; a healthy, well-fed fellow in a pink shirt, 
presented to him for his service as a house-porter, is calling 
the coachmen, and telling them to harness and saddle some 
horses. Two peasants, who live here as coachmen, come out 
of their room, and go in an easy manner, swinging their arms, 
to saddle horses for the ladies and gentlemen. Still nearer 
to the house the sounds of another piano are heard. It is 
the music-mistress, who lives in the family to teach the chil- 
dren, practising her Schumann. The sounds of one piano 
jangle with those of another. Quite near the house walk 
two nurses ; one is young, another old ; they lead and carry 
children to bed ; these children are of the same age as those 
who ran from the village with jugs. One nurse is English:- 
she cannot speak Russian. She was engaged to come from 
England, not from being distinguished by some peculiar qual- 
ities, but simply because she does not speak Russian. Ear- 
ther on is another person, a French woman, who is also 
engaged because she does not know Russian. Farther on a 
peasant, with two women, is watering flowers near the house : 
another is cleaning a gun for one of the young gentlemen. 
Here two women are canying a basket with clean linen, — 
they have been washing "for all these gentlefolks. In the 
house two women have scarcely time to wash the plates and 
dishes after the company, who have just done eating ; and 
two peasants in evening clothes ai'e running up and down 
the stairs, serving coffee, tea, wine, seltzer- water, etc. Up- 
stairs a table is spread. A meal has just ended; and an- 
other will soon begin, to continue till cock-crow, and often 
till morning dawns. Some are sitting smoking, playing 
cards ; others are sitting and smoking, engaged in discours- 
ing liberal ideas of reform; and others, again, walk to and 


WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 


139 


fro, eat, smoke, and, not knowing what to do, have made up 
their mind to take a drive. 

The household consists of fifteen persons, healthy men 
and women ; and thirty persons, healthy working-peoi)le, 
male and female, labor for them. And this takes place 
there, where every hour, and eacli little bo}", are precious. 

This will be so, also, in July, when the peasants, not having 
had their sleep out, will mow the oats at night, in order that 
it may not be lost, and the women will get up before dawn 
in order to finish their threshing in time ; when this old 
woman, who had been exhausted during the harvest, and the 
women with child, and the little children, all will again over- 
work themselves, and when there is a great want of hands, 
horses, carts, in order to house this coi n upon which all men 
feed, of which millions of poods are necessary in Russia in 
order that men should not die : during even such a time, 
the idle lives of ladies and gentlemen will go on. There will 
be private theatricals, picnics, hunting, drinking, eating, 
piano-playing, singing, dancing, — in fact, incessant orgies. 

Here, at least, it is impossible to find any excuse from 
the fact that all this had been going on before : nothing 
of the kind had been in existence. We ourselves carefully 
create such a life, taking bread and labor away from the 
work-worn people. We live sumptuously, as if there were 
no connection whatever between the dying washerwoman, 
child-prostitute, women worn out by making cigarettes, and 
by all the intense labor around us which is inadequate to 
their unnourished strength. We do not want to see the fact 
that if there were not our idle, luxurious, depraved lives, 
there w^ouhl not be this labor dispropoitioned to the strength 
of people, and that if there were not this labor we could not 
go on living in the same way. 

It appears to us that their sufferings are one thing, and our 
liv'es another, and that we, living as we do, are innocent and 
pui’e as doves. We read the description of the lives of the 
Romans, and wonder at the inhumanity of a heartless Lucul- 
lus, who gorged himself with fine dishes and delicious wines 
while people wei'e starving : we shake our heads, and wonder 
at the barbarism of our grandfathers, — the serf-owners, — 
who provided themselves with orchestras and theatres, and 
employed whole villages to keep up their gardens. From the 
height of our greatness we wondernt their inhumanity. We 
read the words of Isaiah v. 8, Woe unto them that join 


140 


WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 


house to house, that lay field to field, till there be no room, 
and ye be made to dwell alone in the midst of the laud. 

11. Woe unto them that rise up early in the morning, that 
they may follow strong drink ; that tarry late into the night, 
till wine inflame them ! 

12. And the harp, and the lute, the tabret, the pipe, and 
wine, are in their feasts : but they regard not the work of the 
Lord, neither have they considered the operation of his hands. 

18. Woe unto them that draw iniquity with cords of vanity, 
and sin as it were with a cart rope. 

20. Woe unto them that call evil good, and good evil ; 
that put darkness for light, and light for darkness ; that put 
bitter for sweet, and sweet for bitter ! 

21. Woe unto them that are wise in their own eyes, and 
prudent in their own sight ! 

22. Woe unto them that are mighty to drink wine, and men 
of strength to mingle strong drink : 

23. Which justify the wicked for reward, and take away 
the righteousness of the righteous from him ! 

We read these words, and it seems to us that they have 
nothing to do with us. We read in the Gospel, Matthew 
iii. 10: And even now is the axe laid unto the root of the 
tree : every tree therefore that bringeth not forth good fruit 
is hewn down, and cast into the fire. 

And we are quite sure that the good tree bearing good fruit 
is we ourselves, and that those words are said, not to us, but 
to some other bad men. 

We read the words of Isaiah vi. 10: Make the heart of 
this people fat, and make their ears heavv, and shut their 
eyes ; lest they see with their eyes, and hear with their ears, 
and understand with their heart, and turn again, and be 
healed. 

11. Then said I, Lord, how long? And he answered. 
Until cities be waste wilhout inhabitant, and houses with- 
out man, and the land become utterly waste. 

AVe read, and are quite assured that this wonderful thing 
has not happened to us, but to some other people. But it is 
for this very reason we do not see that this has happened to, 
and is taking place with, us. AVe do not hear, we do not see, 
and do not understand with our heart. But why has it so 
happened ? 


WHAT MUST WE DO THEN f 


141 


XXVI. 

How can a man who considers himself to be, we will not 
say a Christian, or an educated and humane man, but simply 
a man not entirely devoid of reason and of conscience, — 
how can he, 1 say, live in such a way, .that, not taking part 
in the struggle of all mankind for life, he only swallows up 
the labor of others, struggling for existence, and by his own 
claims increases the labor of those who struggle, and the 
number of those who perish in struggle? 

And such men abound in our so-called Christian and cul- 
tured world ; and not only do they abound in our world, but 
the veiT ideal of the men of our Christian, cultured world, is 
to get the largest amount of property, — that is, wealth, — 
which secures all comforts and idleness of life by freeing its 
possessors from the struggle for existence, and enabling them, 
as much as possible, to profit by the labor of those brothers 
of theii'S who perish in that struggle. 

How could men have fallen into such astounding error? 

How could they have come to such a state that they can 
neither see nor hear nor understand with their heart that 
which is so clear, obvious, and certain? 

One need only think for a moment in order to be terrified 
at the contradiction of our lives to what we profess to 
believe, we, whether we be Christian, or only humane, edu- 
cated people. Be it God or a law of nature that governs 
the world and men, good or bad, the position of men in 
this world, so long as we know it, has always been such 
that naked men, without wool on their bodies, without holes 
in which to take refuge, without food which they might 
find in the field like Robinson Crusoe on his island, are 
put into a position of a continual and incessant struggle 
with nature in order to cover their bodies b}’ making clothes 
for themselves, to protect themselves by a roof over their 
heads, and to earn food in order twice or thrice a day to 
satisfy their hunger, and that of their children and of their 
parents. 

Wherever and whenever and to whatever extent we 
observe the lives of men, whether in Europe, America, 
China, or Russia ; whether we take into consideration all 
mankind, or a small portion, whether in olden limes in a 
nomad state, or in modern times with steam-engines, steam- 


142 


WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 


ploughs, sewing-raachines, and electric light, — we shall see 
one and the same thing going on, — that men, working con- 
stantly and incessantly, are not able to get clothes, shelter, 
and food for themselves, their little ones, and the old, and 
that the greatest number of men as well in olden times as 
now perish from want of the necessaries of life and from 
overwork. 

Wherever we may live, if we draw a circle around us, of 
a hundred thousand, or a thousand or ten, or even one mile’s 
circumference, and look at the lives of those men who are 
inside our circle, we shall find half-starved children, old 
people male and female, pregnant women, sick and weak 
persons, working beyond their strength, and who have 
neither food nor rest enough to support them, and who, for 
this reason, die before their time : we shall see others full- 
grown, who are even killed by dangerous and hurtful tasks. 

Since the world has existed, we find that men with great 
efforts, sutferings, and privations have been struggling for 
their common wants, and have not been able to overcome 
the difficulty. 

Besides, we also know that every one of us, wherever 
and however he may live, nolens volens^ is eveiy day, and 
every hour of the day, absorbing for himself a part of the 
labor done by mankind. 

Wherever and however he lives, his house, the roof over 
him, do not grow of themselves; the firewood in his stove 

does not get there of itself ; the water did not come of itself 

either; and the baked bread does not fall down from the 
sky ; his dinner, his clothes, and the covering for his feet, 
all this has been made for him, not onl}^ by men of past 

generations, long dead, but it is being done for him now 

b}^ those men of whom hundreds and thousands are fainting 
away and dying, in vain efforts to get for themselves and 
for their children sufficient shelter, food, and clothes, — 
means to save themselves and their children from suffering 
and a premature death. 

All men are struggling with want. They are struggling 
so intensely that always around them their brethren, 
fathers, mothers, children, are ])erishing. ^len in this 
world are like those on a dismantled or water-logged shi[), 
with a short allowance of food ; all are put by God, or by 
nature, in such a position that they must husband their 
food, and unceasingly war with want. 


WUAT MUST WE BO THEN? 


143 


Each interruption in this work of every one of us, each 
absorption of tlie labor of others useless for the coniniou 
welfare, is ruinous, alike for us and them. 

How is it that the majority of educated people, without 
laboring, are quietly absorbing the labors of others, neces- 
sary for their own lives, and are considering such an exist- 
ence quite natural and reasonable? 

If we are to free ourselves from the labor proper and 
natural to all, and lay it on others, at the same time not 
considering ourselves to be traitors and thieves, we can do 
so only by two suppositions, — first, that we (the men who 
take no part in common labor) are different beings from 
workingmen, and have a peculiar destiny to fulfil in society 
(like drone-bees, which have a different function from the 
working-bees) ; or secondly, that the business which we 
(men freed from the struggle for existence) are doing for 
other men is so useful for all that it undoubtedly compen- 
sates for that harm which we do to others in overburdening 
them. 

In olden times, men who utilized the labor of others 
asserted, first, that they belonged to a different race ; and 
secondly, that they had from God a peculiar mission, — car- 
ing for the welfare of others ; in other words, to govern and 
teach them : and therefore, they assured others, and partly 
believed themselves, that the business they did was more 
useful and more important for the people than those labors 
by which they profit. This justification was sufficient so 
long as the direct interference of God in human affairs, and 
the inequality of human races, was undoubted. 

But with Christianity, and the consciousness of the equality 
and unity of all men proceeding from it, this justification 
could no longer be expressed in its previous form. 

It was no longer i)ossible to assert that men are born of 
different kind and quality, and having a different destiny ; 
and the old justification, though still held by some, has been 
little by little destroyed, and has now almost entirely disap- 
peared. 

But tliough the justification disappeared, the fact itself, 
of the freeing of some men from labor, and the api)ropriatioii 
by them of other men’s labor, remained the same for those 
who had the power of enforcing it. For this existing fact, 
new excuses have constantly been invented, in order that, 
without asserting the difference of human beings, men might 


144 


WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 


be able to free themselves from personal labor with apparent 
justice. A great many such justilications have been in- 
vented. 

However strange it may seem, the main object of all that 
has been called science, and the ruling tendencj’ of science, 
has been the seeking out of such excuse. 

This has been the object of the theological sciences, and 
of the science of law : this was the object of so-called 
philosophy, and this became lately the object of modern 
rationalistic science. All the theological subtleties which 
aimed at proving that a certain church is the only true 
successor of Christ, and that, therefore, she alone has full 
and uncontrolled power over the souls and bodies of men, 
had in view this very object. 

All the legal sciences — those of state law, penal law, civil 
law, and international law — have this sole aim : the majority 
of philosophical theories, especially' that of Hegel, which 
reigned over the minds of men for such a long time, and 
maintained the assertion that every thing which exists is 
reasonable, and that the state is a necessary form of the 
development of human personality, had only this one object 
in view. 

Comte’s positive philosophy and its outcome, the doctrine 
that mankind is an organism ; Darwin’s doctrine of the 
struggle for existence, directing life and its conclusion, the 
teaching of diversity of human races, the now so popular 
anthropology, biology, and sociology, — all have the same 
aim. These sciences have become favorites, because they all 
serve for the justification of the existing fact of some men 
being able to free themselves from the human duty of labor, 
and to consume other men’s labor. 

All these theories, as is always the case, are worked out 
in the mysterious sanctums of augurs, and in vague, unintelli- 
gible expressions are spread abroad among the masses, and 
ado\)ted by them. 

As in olden times, the subtleties of theology, which justified 
violence in church and state, were the special proi)ertv of 
priests ; and in the masses of the people, the conclusions, 
taken by faith, and ready made for them, were cii’culated, 
that the power of kings, clergy and nol)ility, was sacred : so 
afterwards, the philosoi)hical and legal subtleties of so-called 
science became the property of the priests of science ; and 
through the masses only the ready-made conclusions, accepted 


WHAT MUST WE 1)0 THEN? 


145 


faith, that social order (the organization of societ}’) 
must he such as it is, and cannot be otherwise, was 
diffused. 

So it is also now : it is only in the sanctuaries of the 
modern sages that the laws of life and development of or- 
ganisms are analyzed. Whereas in the crowd, the ready- 
made conclusion accepted on trust, that division of labor is 
a law, confirmed l)y science, is circulated, and that thus it 
must be that some are starving and toiling, and others 
eternally feasting, and that tliis very ruin of some, and feasting 
of others, is tiie undoubted law" of man’s life, to which wo 
must submit. 

The current justification of their idleness of all so-called 
educated people, witli their various activities, from the 
railway proi)rietor down to the author and artist, is this : 
We men who have freed ourselves from the common human 
dut3" of taking part in the struggle for existence, are furthering 
progress, and so we are of great use to all human society, of 
such use that it counterbalances all the harm we do the people 
by consuming their labor. 

This reasoning seems to the men of our day to be not at 
all like the reasoning by which the former non-workers 
justified themselves ; just as the reasoning of the Roman 
emi)erors and citizens, that but for them the civilized w"orld 
w"ould go to ruin, seemed to them to be of quite another 
order to that of the Egyptians and Persians, and so also an 
exactly similar kind of reasoning seemed in turn to the knights 
and clergy of the Middle Ages totally different from that of 
the Romans. 

But it only seems to be so. One need but reflect upon 
the justification of our time in order to ascertain that in it 
there is nothing new. It is only a little differently dressed 
iq), but it is the same because it is based upon the same 
j)rincii)le. Every justification of one man’s consumption of 
the labor of others, while producing none himself, as with 
Pharaoh and his soothsayers, the emperors of Rome and 
those of the Middle Ages and their citizens, knights, priests, 
and clergy, always consists in these tw"0 assertions : First, 
we take the labor of the masses, because w-e are a peculiar 
people, called by God to govern them, and to teach them 
divine truths ; secondly, those who compose the masses 
cannot be judges of the measure of labor wfiiich we take 
from them for the good we do for them, because, as it has 


146 


WHAT MUST WE DO TUEN f 


been said by the Pharisees, “ This multitude which knoweth 
not the law are accursed ” (John vii. 49). 

The people do not understand wherein lies their good, and 
therefore they cannot be judges of the benefits done to them. 
The justification of our time, notwithstanding all apparent 
originality, in fact consists of the same fundamental asser- 
tions : First, we are a peculiar people, — we are an educated 
people, — we further progress and civilization, and by this 
fact, we procure for the masses a great advantage. Sec- 
ondly, the uneducated crowd does not understand that 
advantage which we procure for them, and therefore cannot 
be judges of it. 

The fundamental assertions are the same. We free our- 
selves from labor, appropriate the labor of others, and by 
this increase the burden of our fellows, and assert that in 
compensation for this we bring them a greater advantage, of 
which they, owing to their ignorance, cannot be judges. 

Is it not, then, the same thing? The only difference lies in 
this, that formerly the citizens, the Roman priests, the 
knights, and the nobility, had claims on other men’s labor, 
and now thc^se claims are put forward by a caste who term 
themselves educated. 

The lie is the same, because the men who justify them- 
selves are in the same false position. The lie consists in the 
fact, that, before beginning to reason about the advantages 
conferred on the people by men who have freed themselves 
from labor, certain men. Pharaohs, priests, or we ourselves, — 
educated people, — assume this position, and only afterwards 
excogitate a justification for it. 

This very position of some men who oppressed others, 
in former time as now, serves as a universal basis. The 
difference of our justification from the ancient ones, consists 
only in the fact that it is more false, and less well grounded. 
The old emperors and popes, if they themselves and the peo- 
ple believed in their divine calling, could plainly explain why 
they were the men to control the labor of others: they said 
that they were appointed by God himself for this very thing, 
and from God they had a commandment to teach the people 
divine truths revealed to them, and to govern them. 

Ihit modern, educated men, who do not labor with their 
hands, acknowledging the equality of all men, cannot explain 
why they in particular and their children (for education is 
only l)y money ; that is, by power) are those lucky persons 


WUAT MUST WE DO THEN? 


147 


who are called to an immaterial, easy utility, out of those 
millions wlio by hundreds and thousands are perishing in 
making it possible for them to be educated. Their only jus- 
tification consists in this, that they, such as they now are, 
instead of doing harm to the people by freeing themselves 
from labor, and by swallowing up labor, bring to the people 
an advantage unintelligible to them, which compensates for 
all the evil perpetrated upon them. 


XXVII. 

The theory by which men who have freed themselves from 
personal labor justify themselves in its simplest and most 
exact form, is this: We men, having freed ourselves from 
work, and having by violence appropriated the labor of oth- 
ers, find ourselves better able to benefit them ; in other 
wmrds, certain men, for doing the peo])le a palpable and 
comprehensible harm, — utilizing by violence their labor, :ind 
tliereb}' increasing the difficulty of their struggles with nature, 
— do to them an impalpable and incomprehensible good. 

This [)roposition is a very strange one ; but men, as well of 
former as also of modern times, who have lived on the labors 
of workingmen, believe it, and calm their conscience by it. 
Let us see in what way it is justified in different classes of 
men, who have freed themselves from labor in our own days. 

I serve men by my activity in state or church, — as king, 
minister, archbishop; I serve men by my trading or by in- 
dustry ; I serve men b}’ my activity in the departments of 
science or art. 

By our activities we are all as necessary to the people as 
they are to us. 

So say various men of to-day, who have freed themselves 
from laboring. 

Let us consider seriatim those principles upon which they 
base the usefulness of their activity. 

There are only two indications of the usefulness of any 
activity of one man for another: an exterior indication, — 
the acknowledgment of the utility of activity by those to 
whom it is produced ; and an interior indication, — the desire 
to be of use to others lying at the root of the activity of the 
one who is trying to be of use. 

Statesmen (I include the Church dignitaries appointed by 


148 


WUAT MUST WE DO THEN? 


the government in the category of statesmen) are of use to 
those whom they govern. The emperor, the king, the pres- 
ident of a republic, the prime minister, the minister of justice, 
the minister of war, the minister of public instruction, the 
bishop, and all under them, who serve the state, all live, 
having freed themselves from the struggle of mankind for 
existence, and having laid all the burden of this struggle upon 
other men, upon the ground that their non-activity compen- 
sates for this. 

Let us ap[)ly the first indication to those for whose welfare 
the activity of statesmen is bestowed. Do they, I ask, rec- 
ognize the usefulness of this activity? 

Yes, it is recognized: most men consider statesmanship 
necessary to them ; the majority recognize the usefulness of 
this activity in principle ; but in all its manifestations as 
known to us, in all particular cases as known to us, the use- 
fulness of each of the institutions and of each of the mani- 
festations of this activity is not only denied by those for 
whose advantage it is performed, but they assert that this 
activity is even pernicious and hurtful. There is no state 
function or social activity which is not considered by many 
men to be hurtful : there is no institution which is not con- 
sidered pernicious, — courts of justice, banks, local self-gov- 
ernment, police, clergy, hlvery state activity, from the 
minister down to the policeman, from the bishop to the sex- 
ton, is considered by some men to be useful, and by others 
to be pernicious. And this is the case, not onl}’ in Russia, 
but throughout the world, in France as well as in America. 

All the activity of the republican party is considered per- 
nicious by the radical party, and vice versa : all the activity 
of the radical party, if the power is in their hands, is con- 
sidered bad by the republican and other parties. But not 
only is it a fact that the activity of statesmen is never con- 
sidered by all men to be useful, their activity has, besides, 
this peculiarit}^ that it must always be carried out b^' vio- 
lence, and that, in order to attain this end, there are necessary, 
murders, executions, prisons, taxes raised b}' force, and so 
on. 

It therefore appears, that besides the fact that the useful- 
ness of state activity is not recognized by all men. and is 
always denied by one portion of men, this usefulness has 
the peculiarity of vindicating itself always by violence. 

And therefore the usefulness of state activity cannot be 


WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 


149 


confirmed by the fact that it is recognized by those men for 
whom it is performed. 

Let us apply the second test : let us ask statesmen them- 
selves, from the tsar down to the policeman, from the presi- 
dent to the secretary, from the patriarch to the sexton, 
begging for a sincere answer, wliether, in occupying their 
respective positions, they have in view the good which they 
wish to do for men, or something else. In their desire to fill 
the situation of a tsar, a president, a minister, a police- 
sergeant, a sexton, a teacher, are they moved by the 
desire of being useful to men, or for their own personal 
advantage? And the answer of sincere men would be, that 
their chief motive is their own personal advantage. 

And so it appears that one class of men, who utilize the 
labor of others who perish b}’ their labors, compensate for 
such an undoubted evil by an activity which is always con- 
sidered by a great man}’ men to be not only- useless, but 
pernicious ; which cannot be voluntarily accepted by men, 
but to which they must always be compelled, and the aim of 
which is not the benefit of others, but the personal advan- 
tage of those men who perform it. 

What is it, then, that confirms the theory that state activity 
is useful for men? Only the fact that those men who per- 
form it, firml}’ believe it to be useful, and that it has been 
always in existence ; but so have always been not only use- 
less institutions, but very pernicious ones, like slavery, 
prostitution, and wars. 

Business people (merchants, manufacturers, railway pro- 
prietors, bankers, land-owners) believe in the fact that they 
do a good which undoubtedly ( ompensates for the liarm done 
by them. Upon what grounds do they believe it? To the 
question by whom the usefulness of their activity is recog- 
nized, men in church and in state are able to point to the 
thousands and millions of working-people who in principle 
recognize the usefulness of state and church activity ; but to 
whom will bankers, distillers, manufacturers of velvet, of 
bronzes, of looking-glasses, to say nothing of guns, — to 
whom will they point when we ask them is their usefulness 
recognized by the majority ? 

Jf ther#can be found men who recognize the usefulness of 
manufacturing chintzes, rails, beer, and such like things, 
there will be found also a still greater number of men who 
consider the manufacture of these articles pernicious. 


150 


WUAT MUST WE DO THEN? 


And as for the activity of merchants who raise the prices 
of all articles, and that of land-owners, nobody would even 
attempt to justify it. 

Besides, this activity is always associated with the harm 
done to working-people and with violence, if less direct than 
that of the state, yet just as cruel in its consequences : for 
the activities displayed in industry and in trade are entirely 
based upon taking advantage of the wants of working-people 
in every foiun, in order to compel workingmen to hard and 
hated labor ; to bu\- all goods cheap, and to sell to the people 
the articles necessary for them at the highest possible price ; 
and to raise the interest on money. From whatever point 
we consider their activit}’, we see that the usefulness of busi- 
ness-men is not recognized by those for whom it is expended, 
neither in principle nor in particular cases ; and by the 
majority their activity is considered to be directl}^ pernicious. 
If we were to apply the second test, and to ask. What is the 
chief motive of the activity of business-men? w^e should 
receive a still more determinate answer than that on the 
activiW of statesmen. 

If a statesman says that besides a personal advantage he 
has in view the common benefit, we cannot help believing 
him, and each of us knows such men ; but a business-man, 
from the very nature of liis occupations, cannot have in view 
a common advantage, and would be ridiculous in the sight of 
his fellows if he were in his business aiming at something 
besides the increasing of his own wealth and the keeping of 
it. And, therefore, working-people do not consider the 
activity of business-men of any help to them. Their 
activity is associated with violence towards such people ; and 
its object is not their good, but always and 011I3' personal 
advantage ; and lo ! strange to say, these business-men are 
so assured of their own usefulness that they boldly, for the 
sake of this imaginary good, do an undoubted, obvious harm 
to workingmen by extricating themselves from laboring, and 
consuming the labor of the working-classes. Men of science 
and of art have freed themselves from laboring by putting 
this labor on others, and live with a quiet conscience, think- 
ing they bring a sufficient advantage to other men to com- 
pensate for it. • 

On what is their assurance based? Let us ask them as we 
have done statesmen and business-men. 

Is the utility of the arts and sciences recognized by all, or 
even by the majorit^q of working-people? 


WnAT MUST WE DO THEN? 


151 


We shall receive a very deplorable answer. The activity 
of men in church and state is recognized to be useful in 
theory by ulmost all, and in ‘application by the majoi-ity of 
those for whom it is pei'formed ; the activity of business-men 
is recognized as useful by a small number of woi’king-people ; 
but the activity of men of science and of art is not recog- 
nized to be useful by any of the working-class. The useful- 
ness of their activity is recognized only by those who are 
engaged in it, or who desire to practise it. Those who bear 
upon their shoulders all the labor of life, and who feed and 
clothe the men of science and art, cannot recognize the useful- 
ness of the activity of these men, because they cannot even 
form any idea about an activity which always appears to 
workingmen useless and even depraving. 

Thus, without any exception, working-people think the 
same of universities, libraries, conservatories, picture and 
statue galleries, and theatres, which are built at their expense. 

A workingman considers this activity to be so decidedly 
pernicious that he does not send his children to be taught; 
and in order to compel people to accept this activity, it has 
been everywhere found necessary to introduce a law com- 
pelling [rarents to send the children to school. 

A workingman always looks at this activity with ill-will, 
and Old}' ceases to look at it so when he ceases to be a work- 
ingman, and having saved money, and been educated, lie 
passes out of the class of working-people into the class of 
men who live upon the necks of others. 

And notwithstanding the fact that the usefulness of the 
activity of men of science and art is not recognized, and even 
cannot be recognized, by any workman, these men are all the 
same compelled to make a sacrifice for such an activity. 

A statesman simply sends another to the guillotine or to 
prison ; a business-man, utilizing the labor of another, takes 
away from him his last resource, leaving him the alternative 
of starvation, or labor destructive of his health and life : but 
a man of science or of art seemingly compels nobody to do 
any thing ; he merely offers the good he has done to those who 
are willing to take it ; but, in order to be able to make his 
productions undesirable to the working-people, he takes 
away from the people, by violence, through the statesmen, 
the greatest part of their labor for the building and keeping 
open of academies, universities, colleges, schools, museums, 
libraiies, conservatories, and for the wages for himself and 
his fellows. 


152 


WnAT MUST WE BO THEN? 


But if we were to ask men of science and art about the 
object which they are pursuing in their activity, we should 
receive the most astonishing replies. 

A statesman would answer that his aim was the common 
welfare ; and in his answer, there would be an admixture of 
truth confirmed by public opinion. 

In the answer of the business-man, that his aim wms social 
welfare, there w^ould be less probability ; but we could admit 
even this also. 

But the answer of men of science and art strikes one at 
once by its want of proof and by its effrontery. Such men 
say, without bringing any proofs, just as priests used to do 
in olden times, that their activity is the most important of 
all, and the most necessary for all men, and that without it 
all mankind would go to ruin. They assert that it is so, 
notwithstanding the fact that nobody except they themselves 
either understands or acknowledges their activit}^, and not- 
withstanding the fact that, according to their own definition, 
true science and true art should not have a utilitarian aim. 

These men are occupied with the matter they like, without 
troubling themselves what advantage will come out of it to 
men ; and they are always assured that they are doing the 
most important thing, and the most necessary for all man- 
kind. 

So that while a sincere statesman, acknowledging that the 
chief motive of his activity is a personal one, tries to be as 
useful as possible to the working-people ; while a business- 
man, acknowledging the egotism of his activity, tries to 
give it an appearance of being one of universal utility, — 
men of science and art do not consider it necessary to seem 
to shelter themselves under a pretence of usefulness : they 
deny even the object of usefulness, so sure are they, not 
only of the usefulness, but even of the sacredness, of their 
own business. 

And now it turns out that the third class of men, who 
have freed themselves from labor, and have laid it on other 
men, are occupied with things which are totally incompre- 
hensible to working-people, and which these people consider 
to be trilles, and often very pernicious trifles ; and are occu- 
pied with these things without any consideration of their 
usefulness, but merely for the gratification of their own 
pleasure : it turns out that these men are, from some reason 
or other, quite assured that their activity will always produce 


WHAT MUST WE DO THEN f 153 

that without which working-people would never be able to 
exist. 

Men have freed themselves from laboring for their living, 
and have thrown the work upon others, who perish under it : 
they utilize this labor, and assert that their oecupations, which 
are incom[)reliensible to all other men, and which are not 
directed to useful aims, compensate for all the evil they are 
doing to men by freeing themselves from the labor of earn- 
ing their livelihood, and swallowing up the labor of others. 

The statesman, in order to compensate for that undoubted 
anti obvious evil which he does to man by freeing himself 
fi'om the struggle with nature, and by ap[)ropriating the 
labor of others, does men another obvious and undoubted 
harm by countenancing all sorts of violence. 

The business-man, in order to compensate for that un- 
doubted and obvious harm which he does to men by using 
up their labor, tries to earn for himself as much wealth as 
possible ; that is, as much of other men’s labor as pos- 
sible. 

The man of science and art, in compensating for the 
same undoubted and obvious harm which he does to working- 
people, is occupied with matters to which he feels attracted, 
and which is quite incomprehensible to working-people, and 
which, according to his own assertion, in order to be a true 
one, ought not to aim at usefulness. 

And therefore, all these men are quite sure that their 
right of utilizing other men’s labor is secure. Yet it seems 
ol)vious that all those men who have freed themselves from 
the labor of earning their livelihood have no ground for 
doing this. 

But, strange to say, these men firmly believe in their own 
righteousness, and live as they do with an easy conscience. 
There must be some plausible ground, some false belief, at 
the bottom of such a profound error. 


XXVIII. 

And, in reality, the position in which men, living by other 
men’s labor, are placed, is based, not only upon a certain 
belief, but upon an entire doctrine ; and not only on one 
doctrine, but on three, which have grown one upon another 
during centuries, and are now fused together into an awful 


154 


WHAT MUST WE DO TUEN f 


deceit, or humbug as the English call it, which hides from 
men their unrighteousness. 

The oldest of these in our world, which justifies the treason 
of men against the fundamental duty of labor to earn their 
livelihood, was the Church-Christian doctrine, according to 
which men, by the will of God, differ one from another, as 
the sun differs from the moon and the stars, and as one star 
differs from another. Some men God ordains to have domin- 
ion over all ; others to have power over many ; others, still, 
over a few ; and the remainder are ordained by God to 
obey. 

This doctrine, though already shaken to its foundations, 
still continues to influence some men, so that many who do 
not accept it, who often even ignore the existence of it, are, 
nevertheless, guided by it. 

The second is what I cannot help terming the State-philo- 
sophical doctrine. According to it, as fully developed by 
Hegel, all that exists is reasonable, and the established order 
of life is constant and sustained, not merely by men, but as 
the only possible form of the manifestation of the spirit, or, 
generall}', of the life of mankind. 

This doctrine, too, is no longer accepted by men who direct 
social opinion, and it holds its position onl^’ b}' the property 
of inertia. 

The last doctrine, w’hich is now ruling the minds of men, 
and on which is based the justification as well of leading 
statesmen as also of leading men of business and of science 
and art, is a scientific one, not in the evident sense of tlie 
word, meaning knowledge generally, but in the sense of a 
knowledge peculiar in form as well as in matter, termed sci- 
ence in particular. On this new doctrine particularly is 
based in our days the justification of man’s idleness, hiding 
from him his treason against his calling. 

This new doctrine appeared in Europe contemporaneously 
with a large class of rich and idle people, wlio served neither 
the church nor the state, and who were in want of a justifi- 
cation of their position. 

Not very long ago in France, before the revolution in Phi- 
rope, it was always the case that all non- working ])eople, in 
order to have a right to utilize otlier men’s labor, were 
obliged to have some definite occupation, — to serve in the 
chnrcli, tlie state, or the arm3\ 

Men who served the government, governed the people ; 


WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 155 

those who served the church, taught the people divine truths ; 
and those wlio served the arniy, protected the people. 

Only these three classes of men — the clergy, the states- 
men, and the military men — claimed for themselves the 
right of utilizing workingmen’s labor, and they could always 
point out their services to the people : the remaining l ich 
men, who had not this justification, were despised, and, feel- 
ing their own want of right, were ashamed of their wealth 
and of their idleness. But as time went on, this class of rich 
people, who did not belong either to the clergy, to the gov- 
ernment, or to the army, owing to the vices of these three 
classes, increased in number, and became a powerful party. 
They were in want of a justification of their position. And 
one was invented for them. A century had not elapsed when 
the men who did not serve either the state or the church, 
and who took no part whatever in their affairs, received the 
same right to live by other men’s labor as the former classes ; 
and they not only left off being ashamed of their wealth and 
idleness, but began to consider their position quite justified. 
And the number of such men has increased, and is still in- 
creasing in our days. 

And the most wonderful of all is this, that these men, the 
same whose claims to be freed from laboring were unrecog- 
nized not long ago, now consider themselves alone to be fully 
right, and are attacking the former three classes, — the ser- 
vants of the church, state, and arm3% — alleging their exemp- 
tion from labor to be be unjust, and often even considering 
their activity to be directly pernicious. And what is still 
more wonderful is this, that the former servants of church, 
state, and army, do not now lean upon the divineness of 
their calling, nor even upon the philosophy which considers 
the state necessary for individual development, but they set 
aside tliese supports which have so long maintained them, 
and are now seeking the same supports on which the new 
reigning class of men, who have found a novel justification, 
stands, and at the head of which are the men of science 
and art. 

If a statesman now sometimes, appealing to old memories, 
justifies his position by the fact that he was set in it by God, 
or by the fact that the state is a form of the development of 
pei'sonality, he does it because he is behind the age, and he 
feels tliat nobody believes him. 

In order to justify himself effectually, he ought to find now 


156 


WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 


neither theological nor philosophical, but other new, scien- 
tific supports. 

It is necessary to point to the principle of nationalities, or 
to that of the development of an organism ; and to gain over 
the ruling class, as in the Middle Ages, it was necessary to 
gain over the clergy ; and as at the end of the last century, 
it was necessary to obtain the sanction of philosophers, as 
seen in the case of Frederick the Great and Catherine of 
Russia. If now a rich man, after the old fashion, says 
sometimes that it is God’s providence which makes him rich, 
or if he points to the importance of a nobility for the welfare 
of a state, he does it because he is behind the times. 

In order to justify himself completely, he must point to his 
furthering progress and civilization by improving the modes 
of production, by lowering the prices of consumption, by 
establishing an intercourse between nations. A rich man 
ought to think and to si)eak in scientific language, and, as 
the clerg}^ formerly, he has to offer sacrifices to the ruling 
class : he must publish magazines and books, provide him- 
self with a picture-gallery, a musical society, a kindergarten 
or a technical school. The ruling class is the class of learned 
men and artists of a definite character. They possess com- 
plete justification for having freed themselves from laboring ; 
and upon this justification (as in foi-mer times upon the 
theological justification, and afterwards upon the philosophical 
one) all is based ; and it is these men who now give the 
diploma of exemption to other classes. 

The class of men who now feel completely justified in free- 
ing themselves from labor, is that of men of science, and 
particularly of experimental, positive, critical, evolutional 
science, and of artists who develop their ideas according to 
this tendency. 

If a learned man or an artist, after the old fashion, speaks 
nowadays about prophecy, revelation, or the manifestation 
of the spirit, he does so because he is behind the age, but he 
will not succeed in justifying himself : in order to stand firm 
he must try to associate his activity with experimental, posi- 
tive, critical science, and he must make this science the 
fundamental principle of his activity. Then only would the 
science or the art with which he is occupied appear to be a 
true one, and he would then stand in our days on firm ground, 
and then will there be no doubt as to the usefulness he is 
bringing to mankind. The justification of all those who have 


WHAT MUST WE BO THEN? 157 

freed tliemselves from laboring is based upon experimental, 
ci'itical, positive science. 

The theological and philosophical explanations have already 
had their day : they timiilly and bashfiill}?^ now introduce 
tliemselves to notice, and try to humor their scientific usurper, 
which, however, boldly knocks down and destroys the rem- 
nants of the past, everywhere taking its place, and with assur- 
ance in its own firmness lifts aloft its head. 

The theological justijication maintained that men by their 
destination are called, — some to govern, others to obey; 
some to live sumptuously, others to labor : and therefore 
those who believed in the revelation of God could not doubt 
the lawfulness of the position of those men, who, according 
to the will of God, are called to govern and to be rich. 

The state-philosophical Just iJicatio)i used to say. The state 
with all its institutions and ditferences of classes, according 
to rights and possessions, is that historical form which is 
necessar}’' for the right manifestation of the spirit in man- 
kind ; and therefore the situation which eveiy one occupies 
in state and in society according to his rights and to his pos- 
sessions must be such as to insure the sound life of mankind. 

The scientijic theory says. All this is nonsense and super- 
stition : the one is the fruit of the theological period of 
thought, and the other of the metaphysical period. 

For the studv of the laws of the life of human societies, 
there is only one sure method, — that of a positive, ex[)eri- 
mental, critical science. It is onlj' sociology based upon 
biolog3^ based again upon all other positive sciences, which 
is able to give us new laws of the life of mankind. Man- 
kind, or human societies, are organisms either already perfect, 
or in a state of development subject to all the laws of the 
evolution of organisms. One of the first of these laws is the 
division of labor among the portions of the organs. If some 
men govern, and others obey, some live in opulence, and others 
in want, then this takes place, neither according to the will of 
God, nor because the state is the form of the manifestation of 
l)ersonality, but because in societies as in organisms a division 
of labor takes place which is necessaiy lor the life of the 
whole. Some men i)erfonn in societies the muscular part of 
labor, and others the mental. 

Upon this doctrine is built the ruling excuse of the age. 


158 


WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 


XXIX. 

Christ teaches men in a new way, and this teaching is 
written down in the Gospels. 

It is first persecuted, and then accepted ; and upon it at 
once a complete system of theological dogma is invented, 
which is thereafter accei)ted for the teaching of Christ. The 
system is absurd, it has no foundation ; but by Aurtiie of it, 
men are led to believe that they may continue to live in an 
evil way, and none the less be Christians. And this con- 
clusion is so agreeable to the mass of weak men, who have 
no affection for moral effort, that the system is eagerly ac- 
cepted, not only as true, but even as the Divine truth as 
revealed by God himself. And the invention becomes the 
groundwork on which for centuries theologians build their 
theories. 

Then b}" degrees these learned men diverge b}' various 
channels into special s^’stems of their own, and finally en- 
deavor to overtlirow each other’s theories. They begin to 
feel there is something amiss, and cease to understand what 
they themselves are talking about. But the crowd still 
requires them to expound its favorite instruction ; and thus 
the theologians, pretending both to understand and believe 
wliat they are saying, continue to dispense it. 

In process of time, however, the conclusions drawn from 
theological conceptions cease to be necessary to the masses, 
who, then, peeping into the very sanctuaries of their augurs, 
discover them to be utterly void of those glorious and indu- 
bitable truths which the mysteries of theology had seemed to 
suggest. 

The same happened to philosophy, not in the sense of the 
wisdom of men like Confucius or Epictetus, but with profes- 
sional philosophy, when it humored the instincts of the crowd 
of rich and idle people. Not long ago in the learned world, 
a moral philosophy was in fashion, according to which it ap- 
peared that every thing that is, is reasonable ; that there is 
neither good nor evil ; that man has not to struggle with evil, 
but has merely to manifest the spirit, some in militai-y ser- 
vice, some in courts of justice, and some on the violin. 

Many and various were the ex[)ressions of human wisdom, 
and as such were known to the men of the nineteenth cen- 
tury, — Rousseau, Pascal,*Lessing, and Spinoza; and all the 


WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 


159 


wisdom of antiquity was expounded, but none of its systems 
laid hold of the crowd. We cannot sa}' that tlegers success 
was due to the harmony of his theory. We had no less 
harmonious tlieories from Descartes, Leibnitz, Fichte, and 
Schopenhauer. 

Tliere was only one reason for the fact that this doctrine 
became for a short time the belief of the civilized world, the 
same which had caused the success of theology ; to wit, that 
the deductions of this philosophical theory humored the 
weak side of men’s nature. It said. All is reasonable, all 
is good ; nobodv is to blame for any thing. 

And as at first with the church upon theological founda- 
tions, so also, with the philoso[)hy of Hegel for a base, a 
Babel’s tower was built (some who are behind the age, are 
still sitting upon it) ; and here again was a confusion of 
tongues, men feeling that they themselves did not know of 
what they were talking, but trying to conceal their ignorance, 
and to keej) their prestige before the crowd. 

When I began life, Hegelianism was the order of the day ; 
it was in the very air you breathed ; it found its exi)ression 
in newspapers and magazines, in lectures upon history and 
upon law, in novels, in tracts, in art, in sermons, in conver- 
sation. A man who did not know Hegel, had no right to 
oi)en his mouth : those who desired to learn the truth, were 
studying Hegel, — every thing i)ointed to him ; and lo ! 
forty years have elai)sed, and nothing is left of him ; there is 
no remembrance of him ; all is as though he had never ex- 
isted. And the most remarkable of all is, that as false 
Christianity, so also Hegelianism has fallen, not because 
some one had refuted or overthrown it ; no, it is now as it 
was before, but both have only become no longer necessary 
for the learned, educated world. 

If, at the present time, any man of culture is questioned 
about the system of theological dogma, he will neither contra- 
dict nor ai’gue, but will simply ask, Wlu' should I believe 
these dogmas? ” — “ What good are they to me? ” 

So also with Hegelianism. No one of our day will argue 
its theses. He will only inquire, “ AVhat Spirit?” ‘'Where 
did it come from?” “With what purpose?” “What good 
will it do me?” Not very long ago the sages of Hege- 
lianism were solemnly teaching the crowd; and the crowd, 
understanding nothing, blindly believed all, finding the 
coutirmatiou of what suited them, and thinking that what 


IGO 


WHAT 3IUST WE DO THEN? 


seemed to them to be not quite clear or even contradictory, 
on the heights of philosopliy was clearer than da}' : but 
time went on, the theory was worn out, a new one aj^peared 
in its place, the former one was no longer demanded, and 
again the crowd looked into the mysterious temples of the 
augurs, and saw there was nothing there, and that nothing 
had ever been there but words, very dark and meaningless. 

(This happened within my memory.) These things 
happened, we are told, because they were ravings of the 
theological and metaphysical period ; but now we have a 
critical, positive science, which will not deceive us, because 
it is based upon induction and experience. Now our knowl- 
edge is no longer uncertain as it formerly was, and it is 
only by following it that one can find the answer to all the 
questions of life. 

But this is exactly the same that was said by the old 
teachers, and they certainly were no fools, and we know 
that among them were men of immense intellect ; and within 
my memory the disciples of Hegel said exactly the same 
thing, with no less assurance and no less acknowledgment 
on the side of the crowd of so-called educated people. And 
such men as our Herzen, Stankievich, Byelinsky, were no 
fools either. But why, then, has this wonderful thing hap- 
pened that clever men preached with the greatest assurance, 
and the crowd accepted with veneration such groundless 
and meaningless doctrines? The reason of it is only that 
these doctrines justified men in their bad mode of living. 

A very commonplace Phiglish writer, whose books are 
now almost forgotten, and recognized as the emptiest of 
all empty ones, wrote a tract upon population, in which he 
invented an imaginary law that the means of living does 
not increase with increase of population. This sham lavv 
the author dressed out with formuhie of mathematics, which 
have no foundation whatever, and published it. Judged 
by tlie lightness of mind and the want of talent disi)layed 
in this treatise, we might suppose that it would have passed 
unnoticed, and been forgotten as all other writings of the 
same author have been ; but it turned out quite ditferently. 
The author who wrote it became at once a scientific au- 
thority, and has maintained this high i)osition for nearly 
half a century. Malthus ! The Malthusian theory, — the 
law of the increase of population in geometrical progression, 
and the increase of means of living in arithmetical progres- 


WHAT MUST WE 1)0 THEN? 


161 


sion, and the natural and prudent means of restraining the 
increase of population, — all these became scientitic, un- 
doubted truths which have never been verified, but, being 
accepted as axioms, have served for further deductions. 

Thus learned, educated men were deceived ; whereas 
in the crowd of idle men, there was a devout trust iu the 
great laws, discovered by Malthus. How, then, did this hap- 
pen? These seem to be scientific deductions, which had 
nothing in common with the instincts of the crowd. 

But this is so only to those who believe science to be some- 
thing self-existent, like the Church, not liable to errors, and 
not merely the thoughts of weak men liable to mistakes, who 
only for im[)ortance’ sake call by a pompous word, science^ 
their own thoughts and words. It was only necessary to 
draw practical conclusions from the Malthusian theory in 
order to see that it was quite a human one with very de- 
terminate aims. 

The deductions which followed directly from this theory 
were the following : The miserable condition of working- 
people does not come from the cruelty, egotism, and un- 
reasonableness of rich and strong men, but it exists according 
to an unchangeable law which does not depend upon man, 
and, if anybod}" is to blame, it is the starving woiking- 
people themselves : why do these fools come into the world 
when they know that they will not have enough to eat? and 
therefore the wealthy and powerful classes are not at all 
to blame for any thing, and they may quietl}' continue to 
live as they have done. 

This conclusion, precious to the crowd of idle men, in- 
duced all learned men to overlook the incorrectness and 
total arbitrariness of the deductions ; and the crowd of edu- 
cated idle people, instinctively guessing to what these 
deductions led, greeted the theory with delight, set upon 
it the seal of trutli, and cherished it during half a centuiy. 
The reason for all this was, that these doctrines justified 
men in their bad mode of life. 

Is not the same cause at the bottom of the self-assurance 
of men of positive, critical, experimental science, and of 
the reverent regard of the crowd to what they ]n'each ? At 
first it a})[)ears strange that the theory of evolution justifies 
men in their unrighteousness, and that the scientific theory 
has only to do with facts, and does nothing else than observe 
facts. But it only seems so. 


1G2 


WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 


So it had been with theological teaching ; theology 
seemed to be occupied only with doctrines, and to have 
nothing to do with the lives of men : so it had been 
with philosophy, which also seemed to be occupied only with 
facts. 

So it had been with the teaching of Hegel 'on a large 
scale, and with the theory of Malthus on a small one. 
Hegelianism seemed to be occupied merely with its logical 
constructions, and to have nothing to do with the lives of 
men ; so with the theoiy of Malthus, which seemed to be 
occupied exclusively with statistics. 

Hut it only seemed so. 

Modern science is also occupied exclusively with facts : it 
studies facts. 

Hut what facts? Why such facts, and not others? 

The men of modern science are very fond of speaking 
with a solemn assui'auce, “ We study facts alone,” imagin- 
ing that these words have some meaning. 

To study facts alone is quite impossible, because the num- 
ber of facts, which may be objects of our study, are count- 
less, in the strict sense of the word. 

Hefore beginning to study facts, one must have some 
theory, according to which facts are studied ; that is, these 
or those being selected from the countless number of facts. 
And this theory indeed exists, and is even very definitel}^ 
ex[)ressed, though man}' of the agents of modern science 
ignore it ; that is, do not want to know it, or really do not 
know it, and sometimes pretend not to know it. 

Thus matters stood before with all most important beliefs. 

The foundations of each are always given in theory ; and 
so-called learned men seek only for further deductions from 
various foundations given to them, though sometimes ignor- 
ing even these. 

Hut a fundamental theory must always be present. So 
is it also now : modern science selects its facts upon the 
gi’ound of a determinate theory, which sometimes it knows, 
sometimes does not wish to know, sometimes really does not 
know ; but it exists. And the theory is this : All mankind 
is an undying organism ; men are particles of the organs of 
this organism, having each his special calling for the service 
of the whole. As the cells, growing into nn organism, divide 
among themselves the labor of the struggle for existence of 
the whole organism, increase one capacity, and diminish 


WHAT MUST WE DO THEN 7 


163 


another, and all together form an organ in order better to sat- 
isfy the wants of the whole organism ; and as among social 
animals, — ants and bees, — the individuals divide the labor 
among themselves ((jueen bees lay eggs, drone-bees fecun- 
date, working-bees labor for tlie life of the whole), — so also 
in mankind and in human societies there takes place tlie 
same differentiation and integration of the parts. And 
therefore, in order to find the law of man’s life, we must study 
the laws of the lives and development of organisms. And 
in these we find the following laws : That each phenomenon 
is followed by more than one consequence ; the failure of 
uniformity ; the law of uniformity and diversity, and so on. 
All this seems to be very innocent, but we need only draw 
deductions from these observations of facts in order to see 
at once to what they are tending. 

These facts lead to one thing, — the acknowledgment that 
the existence in human societies of division of activities is 
oi-ganic ; that is, necessary. And they therefore induce us to 
consider the unjust position in which we are, who have freed 
ourselves from laboring, not from the point of reasonable- 
ness and justice, but merely as an indubitable fact which 
confirms a general law. Moral philosophy used also to 
justif}^ every cruelty and wickedness ; but there it turned out 
to be philosophical, and therefore incorrect : but according to 
science, the same thing turns out to be scientific, and therefore 
unquestionable. 

IJow, then, can we help accepting such a fine theory ! We 
need only look at human society merely as at an object of 
observation, and we may quietly devour the labor of perish- 
ing men, calming ourselves with the idea that our activity as 
a dancing-master, a lawyer, a doctor, a philosopher, an 
actor, an investigator of the theoiy of mcdiumism and of 
forms of atoms, and so on, is a functional activity of the 
organism of mankind, and therefore there cannot be a ques- 
tion whether it is just that I should live doing only what is 
pleasant, as there can be no question whether the division of 
labor between a mental and a muscular cell is just or not. 
How, then, can we help accepting such a nice theory which 
enables us afterwards forever to put our conscience into our 
pockets, and live a completely unbridled, animal life, feeling 
under our feet a firm, scientific support? And it is upon this 
new belief that the justification of idleness aud the cruelty 
of men is built. 


164 


WUAT MUST WE DO THEN? 


This doctrine had its commencement about half a century 
ago. Its chief founder was the French philosopher Comte. 
Comte, being a lover of systematic theory, and at the same 
time a man of religious tendency, was impressed by the then 
new physiological researches of Bichat ; and he conceived 
the old idea, expressed in by-gone days by JMenenius 
Agrippa, that human societies, indeed all human-kind, may 
be regarded as one whole, an organism ; and men, — as live 
particles of separate organs, each having his delinite 
destination to fulfil in the service of the wliole organism. 

Comte was so fascinated b}/ this idea, that he founded 
upon it his philoso[)hical thcoiy ; and this theory so capti- 
vated him, that he quite forgot that the point of departure 
he had started from was no more than a pretty com[)arison, 
suitable (mougli in a fable, but in no way justifiable as tfie 
foundation of a science. As often ha[)pons, he took liis pet 
hypothesis for an axiom, and so imagined tliat ids wliole 
theory was based upon the most firm and [lositive 
foniKlations. 

According to his theory, it appeared that, as mankind is 
an organism, tlierefore tlie knowledge of what man is and 
what ought to be his relation to the world, is onl}^ possible 
through a knowledge of the pi’operties of this organism. 
In oi'der to learn these pi-opertics, man is lilted to make 
observations iqion other lower organisms, and draw deduc- 
tions from their lives. 

Therefore, first, the true and exclusive method of science, 
according to Comte, is the inductive one, and science is only 
science when it has experiment for its basis ; secondly, the 
final aim and the summit of science becomes the new 
science concerning the imaginary organism of mankind, or 
the organic being, — mankind ; this new hypothetic science 
is sociology ; from this view of science, it generally turns out 
that all former knowledge was false, and that the whole 
history of mankind, in the sense of its self-consciousness, 
divides itself into three, or rather into two, periods : first, 
the theological and metaphysical period, from the beginning 
of the world to Comte ; and secondly, the modern period of 
true science, positive science, beginning with Comte. 

All this was very well, but there was a single mistake in 


WUAT MUST WE BO THEN? 


165 


it ; it was this : that all this edifice was built upon the sand, 
ui)on an arbitrary and incori’ect assertion that mankind, 
collectively considered, was an organism. This assertion 
was arbitrary, because there is no more reason why, if we 
acknowledge the existence of mankind to be an organism, 
we should refuse to allow the correctness of all the vai-ious 
theological propositions. 

It was incorrect, because to the idea of mankind, tliat is, 
of men, the definition of an organism was incorrectly added, 
whereas mankind lacks the essential characteristic of an 
organism, — a centre of sensation or consciousness. We call 
an elephant, as well as a bacterium, organisms, only because 
we suppose by analogy in these beings unification of 
sensations or consciousness. As for human societies and 
mankind, they lack this essential ; and therefore, however 
many other general character-signs we may find out in 
mankind and in an organism, without this, the acknowledg- 
ment of mankind to be an organism is incorrect. 

But notwithstanding the arbitrariness and incorrectness of 
the fundamental pro[)osition of positive philosophy, it was 
accepted by the so-called educated world with great 
sympathy, because of tliat great fact important for the 
crowd, that it afforded a justification of the existing order of 
things by recognizing the lawfulness of the existing division 
of labor; that is, of violence in mankind. It is remarkalile 
in this respect that from the writings of Comte composed of 
two parts, — a positive philosoiihy and a positive politics, — 
by the learned world, only the first part was accepted, that 
which justified upon new experimental principles the exist- 
ing evil in human society : the second part, treating of the 
moral altruistic duties, following from this recognition of 
mankind to be an organism, was considered not only to be 
unimportant, but even unscientific. 

Here the same thing was repeated which occurred with the 
two parts of Kant’s writings : the “‘Critique of Pure Reason ” 
was accepted by science; but the “ Critique of Practical 
Reason,” that part which contains the essence of moral 
doctrine, was rejected. In the teaching of Comte, that was 
recognized to be scientific which humored the reigning evil. 

But the positive philosophy, accepted by the crowd, based 
upon an arbitrary and incorrect supposition, was by itself 
too ill-grounded, and therefore too unsteady, and could not 
be sustained by itself. 


166 


WHAT MUST ]VE DO THEN? 


And now among all the idle play of ideas of so-called 
men of science, there also appeared a siinilarh' arbitraiT and 
incori’ect assertion, not a new one at all, to the effect that 
all living beings, that is, organisms, proceed one from 
another ; not only one organism from another, but one 
organism from many ; that during a very long period, a 
iiHllion of years for instance, not only a fish and a duck may 
have proceeded from one and the same forefather, but also 
one organism might have proceeded from many se[)ai*ate 
organisms ; so, for instance, out of a swarm of bees a 
single animal may proceed. And this arbitrary and incorrect 
assertion was accepted by the learned world with still 
greater S3un[)athy. 

This assertion was an arbitrary one, because nobod}" has 
ever seen how one kind of oi’ganism is made from others ; 
and therefore the hypotliesis about the origin of species will 
always remain a mere supposition, and never will become an 
ex[)erimental fact. 

This hypothesis was incorrect because the solution of the 
problem of the origin of species by the theor}" that tliey had 
their origin in the law of inheritance and accommodation 
during an infinitely long time, was not at all a solution 
of the problem, but the mere iteration of the question in 
another form. 

According to the solution of this problem by Moses (in 
opposition to which consists all the object of Comte’s the- 
ory), it appeared that the variety of the species of living 
beings proceeded from the will of God and his infinite om- 
nipotence : according to the theory of evolution, it appears 
that the variet}" of species of living beings proceeded by 
themselves in consequence of the infinite variet}' of conditions 
of inheritance and environment in an infinite period of time. 

The theorv of evolution, s[)eaking plainly, asserts only 
that by chance in an infinite period of time any thing you 
like may proceed from any thing else you choose. 

This is no answer to the question ; it is simply the same 
question put differently : instead of will is put cliance, and 
the co-efficient of the infinite is transferred from omnipotence 
to time. 

But this new assertion, enforced by Darwin’s followers in 
an arl)itrary and inaccurate spirit, maintained the former 
assertion of Comte, and therefore it became a revelation for 
our time, and the foundation of all sciences, even that of 


WHAT MUST ]VE DO TEEN? 


167 


the history of philosophy and religion ; and besides, according 
to the naive confession of tlie very founder of Darwin’s 
theory, this idea was awakened in him by the law of Malthus ; 
and therefore he pointed to the struggle for existence of not 
only of men, l)ut of all living beings, as to a fundamental 
law of every living thing. And this was exactl}' what was 
wanted by the crowd of idle people for their own justification. 

Two unstable theories which could not stand upon their 
own feet supported each other, and received a show of 
stability. Both the theories bore iu them a sense, t’l’ccious 
for the crowd, that for the existing evil in human societies 
men are not to be blamed, that the existing order is what 
ought to be, and thus the new theory was accepted b}" the 
crowd in the sense which was wanted by them, with full 
confidence and un[)recedented enthusiasm. 

And so the new scientific doctrine was founded upon two 
arbitrai-y and incorrect propositions, which were accepted in 
the same way as dogmas of faith are accepted. Both in 
matter and form, this new doctrine is remarkably similar to 
the Church-Christian one. In matter, the similarit}^ lies in 
the fact, that in both doctrines alike, a fantastical meaning is 
attached to really existing things, and this artificial meaning 
is taken as the object of our research. 

In the Church-Christian doctrine, the Christ which did really 
exist is screened away by a whole system of fantastical theo- 
logical dogmas : in the positive doctrine, to the really exist- 
ing fact of live men is attributed the fantastical attributes of 
an organism. 

In form, the similarity of these two doctrines is remarkable, 
since, in both cases, a theory emanating from one class of 
men is accepted as the onh" and infallible truth. In the 
Church-Christian doctrine, the Church’s way of understanding 
God’s revelation to men is regarded as the sacred and only 
true one. In the doctrine of positivism, certain men’s way 
of understanding science is regarded as absolutely correct 
and true. 

As the Church-Christians regard the foundation of their 
church as the only oi’igin of the true knowledge of God, and 
only out of a kind of courtesy admit that foi’mer believers 
may also be regarded as having formed a chui-ch ; so in 
precisely the same manner does positive science, according 
to its own statement, [)lace its oiigiii in Comte: and its rep- 
resentatives, also only out of courtesy, admit the existence 


168 


WIIAT MUST WE DO THEN? 


of previous science, and that only as regarding certain 
thinkers, as, for instance, Aristotle. Both tlie Clinrch and 
positive science altogether exclude the ideas of all the rest of 
mankind, and regard all knowledge outside their own as 
erroneous. 

In our time, the old dogma of evolution comes in with 
new importance to help the fundamental dogma of Comte 
concerning the organism of mankind ; and from these two 
elements a new scientific doctrine has been formed. If it is 
not quite clear to a believer in the organism of mankind 
why a collection of individuals may be counted as an or- 
ganism, the dogma of evolution is charged with the expla- 
nation. This dogma is needed to reconcile the contradictions 
and certainties of the first: mankind is an organism, and 
we see that it does not contain the chief characteristic of an 
organism ; how must we account for it? 

Here the dogma of evolution comes in, and explains. 
Mankind is an organism in a slate of develoiiment. If you 
accept this, you may then consider mankind as such. 

A man who is free from the positive supei’stition cannot 
even understand wherein lies the interest of the theory of 
the origin of species and of evolution ; and this interest is 
explained, only when we learn the fundamental dogma, that 
mankind is an organism. And as all the subtleties of 
theology are intelligible only to those who believe in its 
fundamental dogmas, so also all the subtleties of sociology, 
which now occupy the minds of all men of this recent and 
profound science, are intelligible only to believers. 

The similarity between these two doctrines holds good yet 
further. Being founded upon dogmas accepted by failh, 
these doctrines neither question nor analyze their own 
principles, which, on the other hand, are used as starting- 
points for the most extraordinary theories. The preachers 
of these call themselves, in theology, sanctified ; in positive 
knowledge, scientific ; in both cases, infallible. And at the 
same time, they attain the most peremi)tory, incredible, and 
unfounded assertions, which they give forth with the greatest 
pomp and seriousness, and which are with equal pomp and 
seriousness contradicted in all their details by otliers who do 
not agree, and yet who equally recognize the fundamental 
dogmas. 

The Basil the Great of scientific doctrine, Spencer, in one 
of his first writings expresses these doctrines thus : Societies 


WIIAT MUST WE 1)0 THEN? 


169 


nncl organisms, says he, are alike in the following points : 
First, in tliat, being conceived as small aggregates, they 
im[)erceptil)ly grow up in mass, so that some of them become 
ten thousand times bioger than their originals. 

Secondly, in that, wliile in the beginning they have such 
simi)le structure that they ma}^ almost be considered as 
structureless, in their growth they develop an ever-increasing 
complexity of structure. 

Thirdly, in that, though in their earl3' undeveloped period 
there does not exist among them any dependence of particles 
one upon another, these particles b}" and by acquire a mutual 
depend('uce, which at last becomes so strong that the activity 
and the life of each part is possible only with the activity and 

the lives of all othei-s. 

* 

Fourthl^g in this, that the life and the development of 
society is moi-e independent and longer than the life and the 
develoi)meut of every unit which goes to form it, and which 
are se[)aratel3" i)orn and growing and acting and multiplying 
and dying wliile the political body formed of them continues 
to live one generation after another, developing in mass, in 
perfection of structure, and in functional activity. 

Then follow the points of ditfei’ence between organisms 
and societies, and it is demonstrated that these differences 
are only' seeming ones, and that organisms and societies are 
quite similar. For an impartial man the question at once 
arises, What are you, then, s[)eaking about? Why is mankind 
an organism, or something similar? 

You say that societies are similar to organisms according 
to these four points ; but even this comparison is incorrect. 
You take only a few characteristics of an organism, and you 
then apply them to human societies. You produce four points 
of similarity, then you take the points of difference which y'ou 
say are only seemingly so, and you conclude that human 
societies may' be considered as organisms. 

P>ut this is nothing else than an idle play of dialectics. 
Upon this ground we may consider as organism every thing 
we choose. I take the first thing which comes to my mind, — 
a forest, — as it is [ilanted in a field and grows up : first be- 
ginning as a small aggregate, it imperceptilily increases in 
mass. " This is also the case with fields, when, after being 
planted they are gradually covered with forest-trees. Sec- 
ondly, in the beginning the structure of an organism is sim- 
ple, then the complexity increases, and so on. 


170 


WUAT MUST WE DO THEN? 


The same is the case with the forest : at first there are 
only birch-trees, then hazel, and so on ; first all the trees grow 
sti’aight, and afterwards the}^ interlace their branches. 
Thirdly, the dependence of the parts increases so that the 
life of each part depends ii[)on the lives and activities of all 
the others : it is exactly the same with the forest ; the nut- 
tree warms the trunks (if you hew it down, the other trees 
will be frozen in winter), the underwood keei)S off wind, 
the seed-trees continue tlie si)ecies, the tall and leafy ones 
give shadow', and the life of each tree depends upon that of 
the rest. Fourthly, separate parts may die, but the whole 
organism continues to live. Separate trees perish, but the 
forest continues in life and growth. The same holds good 
with the exam[)le so often brought by the defenders of tjm 
scientific doclrine. Cutoff an arm, — the aim will die: we 
may sa}^ remove a tree from the shadow and the ground of a 
forest, it will die. 

Another remarkable similarity between this scientific doc- 
trine and the Church-Christian one, — as also in the case of 
any other theory founded upon i)ropositions, accepted through 
faith, — lies in their capacity of being proof against logic. 

After having demonstrated that b}* this theory a forest 
may be considered as an organism, you think you have proved 
to the followers of the theory of organisms the incorrectness of 
their definition ? Not at all. Their definition of an organism 
is so inexact and dilatable, that they can apply it to every 
thing they like. 

Yes. they will say, you may consider the forest, too, as an 
organism. A forest is a mutual co-operationship of the in- 
dividuals who do not destroy each other ; an aggregate : its 
parts can also pass into a closer relationshi[), and by differen- 
tiation and integration it may become an organism. 

Then you will say, that in that case, the birds too and the 
insects, and the herbs of this forest, which mutually co-oper- 
ate and do not destroy each other, ma}’ l)c considered with 
the trees to be an organism. They would agree to this 
too. According to their theoiy, we may consider as an 
organism every collection of living beings which mutually 
co-operate, and do not destroy one another. Y^ou may estab- 
lish a connection and co-operation between every thing you 
like, and, according to evolution, 3’ou m.ay assert that floni 
any thing may proceed any thing else you like, if a long enough 
period is granted. 


WUAr MUST WE DO THEN? 


171 


It is quite impossible to prove to a believer in a theological 
doctrine, that his doctrine is false. Hut one may tell him 
that if one man arbitrarily asserts one dogma, another has 
the same right arbitrarily to invent and assert another. One 
may say the same thing with yet better ground to the follow- 
ers of [)ositive and evolutional science. Upon the basis of 
this science one could undeilake to prove any thing one liked. 
And the strangest tiling of all is, that this same positive 
science regards the scientilic method as a condition of true 
knowledge, and that it has itself defined the elements of 
the scien title method. It professes that common sense is the 
scientific method. And yet common senSe itself discloses at 
every step the fallacies of this doctrine. The moment those 
who occupied the position of saints felt that there was no 
longer any thing sacred left in them, like the Pope and our 
own S^mod, they immediately called themselves not merely 
sacred, but “ most sacred.” The moment science felt that 
it had given iq) common sense, it called itself the science of 
reason, the only really scientific science. 


XXXI. 

The division of labor is the law pervading ev^erv existing 
thing, therefoi’e it must exist in human societies too. That 
may be so ; but the question still remains, whether the now 
existing division of labor in human society is that division 
which ought to be. And when men consider a certain divis- 
ion of labor to be reasonable and just, no science wdiatever 
can prove to men that there ought to be that which they 
consider to be unreasonable and unjust. 

The theological theory demonstrated that power is of God, 
and it very well may be so. But the question still remains, 
To whom is the powmr given, — to Catherine the Emi)ress, 
or to the rebel Pugatchof? And no theological subtleties 
whatever can solve this difficulty. Moral Philosophy de- 
monstrated that a state is merely a form of the social 
development of the individual ; but the question still 
remains, Can the state of a Nero or that of a Gengis Khan 
be considered a form of such development? And no tran- 
scendental words whatever can solve the difficulty. 

It is the same with scientific science also. The division of 
labor is the condition of the life of organisms and of human 


172 


WUAT MUST WE DO THEN? 


societies ; but what have we to consider in these human socie- 
ties to be an organic division of labor? And however much 
science studies the division of labor in the molecules of a 
tape-worm, all these observations cannot compel men to 
acknowledge a division of labor to be correct which cannot 
be admitted hy their reason and conscience. However con- 
vincing may be the proofs of the division of labor in the 
cells of investigated organisms, a man, if he has not yet 
lost his reason, will say it is wrong that some should only 
weave cloth all their life long, and that this is not a division 
of labor, but oppression of a human being. 

Herbert Spencer and others say that, as there are a whole 
population of weavers, therefore the weaver’s activity is 
the organic division of labor. Saying this, they use a simi- 
lar line of reasoning as do theologians. There is a power, 
and therefore it is of God, whatever it may be : there are 
weavers, therefore they exist as a result of the law of divis- 
ion of labor. There might be some sense in this if the 
power and the [)osition of weavers were created by them- 
selves ; but we know that they are not, but that it is we who 
create them. Well, then, we ought to ascertain whethei’ we 
have established this before-mentioned power according to 
the will of God, or of ourselves, and whether we have called 
these weavers into being by virtue of some organic law, or 
from some other cause. 

Here are men earning their living by agriculture, as it is 
proper for all men to do : one man has arranged a smith’s 
forge, and mended his plough ; his neighbor comes to him, 
and asks him to mend his plough, too, and promises to 
give labor or money in return. A second comes with a 
similar request ; others follow ; and in the society of these 
men, a form of division of labor arises : thus, one man 
becomes a smith. 

Another man has taught his children well ; his neighbor 
brings him his children, and asks him to teach them, and 
thus a teacher is formed : but the smith as well as the 
teacher become, and continue to be, such, only because 
they were asked, and they remain such as long as people 
require their trades. If it happens that too many smiths 
and teachers appear, or if their labor is no longer wanted, 
they at once, according to common sense, throw aside their 
trade, and become laborers again, as it everywhere alwavs 
hapi)ens where there is no cause for the violation of a right 
division of labor. 


WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 


173 


Men who behave in such a way are directed both by tlieir 
reason and their conscience ; and therefore we who ai-e en- 
dowed with reason and conscience, all agree that such a 
division of labor is a right one. But if it were to hai)pen 
that smiths, having the possibility of compelling otlier men 
to labor for them, were to continue to make horseshoes 
when there was no longer a demand for them, and teachers 
wei'c to wish to continue to teach when there was nobody 
to be taught, so to every impartial man endowed with rea- 
son and conscience, it would become obvious that such is 
not real division of labor, but a usurpation of other men’s 
labor ; because such a division could no longer be tested 
satisfactorily by that sole standard by which we may know 
whether it is right or not, — the demand of such labor by 
other men, and a voluntary compensation offered for it by 
them. And exactly such an overplus, however, is that 
which scientific science terms a division of labor. 

Men do that which others do not require, and they ask to be 
fed for tliis, and sa}" it is just, because it is division of labor. 
That which forms the chief social evil of a people, not only 
with us alone, is the countless number of government func- 
tionaries : that which is the cause of the economical misery 
of our days is what is called in Phigland over-production 
(that is, the production of an enormous quantity of articles, 
wanted by nobody, and which no one knows how to get rid 
of). All this comes simply from this strange idea about 
the division of labor. 

It would be very strange to see a boot-maker who con- 
sidered that men were bound to feed him because, forsooth, 
he continued to produce boots wanted by no one ; but what 
shall we say about those men in government, church, science, 
and art, who not only do not produce any thing tangibly 
useful for the people, and whose produce is wanted by 
nobod}^ and who as boldly require to be well fed and 
clothed on account of the division of labor? 

There may be some sorcerers, for whose activity there 
is a demand, and to whom men give cakes and spirits ; but 
we cannot even imagine the existence of such sorcerers 
who, while their sorcery is not wanted by anybody, require 
to be fed simply because the}" wish to practise their art. 
And this very thing is tlie case in our world with men in 
church and state, with men of science and art. And all this 
proceeds from that false conception of the division of labor 


174 


WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 


which is defined, not by reason and conscience, but by deduc- 
tions to which men of science so unanimously resort. 

The division of labor, indeed, has always existed ; but it 
is correct only when man decides wherein it ought to con- 
sist by his reason and conscience, and not by his making 
observation upon it. And the conscience and the reason of 
all men solve this question in the simplest and surest way. 
They always decide that question by recognizing the division 
of labor to be a right one only when the S[)ecial activity’ of 
a man is so necessary to others, that they, asking him to 
serve them, freely olfer to feed him in compensation for what 
he will do for them. But when a man from his infancy up 
to his thirtieth year lives upon the shoulders of other men, 
promising to do, when he finishes his studies, something very 
useful, which nobody’ has ever asked him for, and then for 
the rest of his life lives in the same way, promising only to 
do presently something which nobody asks him to do, this 
would not be a true division of labor, but, as it really is, 
only a violation by a strong man of the labor of others ; 
the same appropriation of other’s labor a strong man, 
which formerly theologians called divine destination ; phi- 
losophers, inevitable conditions of life ; and now scientific 
science, the organic division of labor. 

All the importance of the ruling science consists in this 
alone. This science becomes now the dispenser of diplomas 
for idleness, because she alone in her temples analyzes and 
determines what activity is a parasitic aiul what an organic 
one in the social organism. As if men could not, each for 
himself, much better decide it, and more quickly, too, by con- 
sulting his reason and conscience. 

And as formerly both for the clergy and then for states- 
men, there could not have been any doul)t as to who were 
most necessary for other people, so now for the men of pos- 
itive science it seems that there cannot be any doubt about 
this, that their own activity is undoubtedly an organic one : 
they, factors of science and art, are the cells of the brain, 
the most precious cells of all the human organism. Let us 
leave them to reign, eat and drink, and be feasted, as priests 
and sophists of old have done before them, as long as they 
do not de[)rave men ! 

Since men exist as reasonable creatures, they have dis- 
criminated good from evil, making use of what has been done 
in this direction before them by others, struggled with evil, 


WnAT MUST WE BO THEN? 


175 


seeking a true and better way, and slowly but unceasingly 
have been advancing in this way. And always across it vari- 
ous deceits stood before them, which had in view to show 
them that this struggle was not at all necessary for them, but 
that they should submit to the tide of life. There existed 
the awful old deceits of the Church; with dreadful struggle 
and effort men little by little got rid of them : but scarcely 
had the}’ done so when in the place of the old deceit arose 
a new one, — a state and philosophical one. Men freed 
themselves out of tliese too. 

And now a new deceit, a still worse one, springs up in their 
path, — the scientilic one. 

This new deceit is exactly such as the old ones were : its 
essence consists in the substitution for reason and conscience 
of something external ; and this external thing is observa- 
tion, as in tlieology it was re violation. 

The snare of this science consists in this, that having shown 
to men the most bare-faced perversions of the activity of 
reason and conscience, it destroys in them confidence in both 
reason and conscience. Things which are the property of 
conscience and reason are now to be discerned by observa- 
tion alone : these men lose the conception of good and evil, 
and become unable to understand those expressions and 
definitions of good and evil which have been worked out by 
all the former existence of mankind. 

All that reason and conscience say to themselves, all that 
they said to the highest representatives of men since the 
world has existed, all this in their slang is conditional and 
subjective. All this must be left behind. 

It is said by reason, one cannot apprehend the truth, be- 
cause reason is liable to error: there is anotlier way, unmis- 
takable and almost mechanical, — one ought to study facts 
upon the ground of science, that is, upon two groundless 
suppositions, positivism and evolution, which are given out 
to be most undoubted truths. And the ruling science with 
mock solemnity asserts that the solving of all the questions 
of life is only possible through studying the facts of nature, 
and es[)ecially those of organisms. 

The credulous crowd of youth, overwhelmed by the novelty 
of this authority, not only not destroyed, but not yet even 
touched by critics, rush to the study of these facts of natural 
sciences to that only way which, according to the assertion of 
the ruling doctrine, alone can lead to the elucidation of all 


176 


WIIAT MUST WE BO THEN? 


questions of life. But the farther the students proceed In this 
study, the farther do they remove not only the possibility of 
solving the questions of life, but even the very thought of 
this solution ; the more they grow accustomed not so much 
to observe themselves as to believe upon their word otlier 
men’s observations (to believe in cells, in protoplasm, in the 
fourth dimension of matter, and so on) ; the more the form 
hides from them the contents ; the more the}’ lose the con- 
sciousness of good and evil, and the capacity of understand- 
ing those expressions and definitions of good and evil which 
have been worked out by all the former career of mankind ; 
the more they appropriate to themselves that special scien- 
tific slang of conditional expressions which have no common 
human meaning in them ; the farther and farther they get 
into the thick forest of observations which is not lighted 
up by any thing ; the more they lose the capacity, not only 
of an independent thinking, but even of understanding 
other men’s fresh human ideas which are not included in their 
Talmud : but chiefly they pass their best years in losing the 
habit of life, that is, of laboring, and accustom themselves 
to consider their own position justified, and thus become 
physically good-for-nothing parasites, and mentally dislo- 
cate their brains, and lose all power of thought-produc- 
tiveness. 

And so by degrees, their capacities more and more blunted, 
they acquire self-assurance, which deprives them forever of 
the possibility of returning to a simple, laborious life, to 
any plain, clear, common, human manner of thinking. 


XXXII. 

The division of labor in human society has always existed, 
and I dare say always will exist ; but the question for us is, 
not whether or not it has been and will still continue, but 
whnt should guide us to arrange that this division may be a 
right one. 

If we take the facts of observation for our standard, we 
must refuse to have any standard at all : every division of 
labor which we see among men, and which may seem to us 
to be a right one, we shall consider right ; and this is what 
the ruling scientific science is leading us to. 

Division of labor ! 


WHAT MUST WE BO THEN? 177 

Some are occupied with mental and spiritual, others with 
muscular and physical, labor. 

With what an assurance do men express this ! They wish 
to think so, and that seems to them in realil}' a correct ex- 
change of services which is only the very apparent ancient 
violence. 

Thou, or rather you (because it is always many who have 
to feed one) , — you feed me, dress me, do for me all this rough 
labor, which I require of you, to which you are accustomed 
from your infancy, and I do for you that mental work to 
which I have already become accustomed. Give me bodily 
food, and I will give you in return the spiritual. 

The statement seems to be a correct one ; and it would 
really be so if only such exchange of services were free, if 
those who supply the bodily food were not obliged to supply it 
before they get the spiritual. The producer of the s[)iritual. 
food says, Jn order that I may be able to give you this 
food, you must feed me, clothe me, and remove all filth from 
ni}' house. 

But, as for the producer of bodily food, he must do it 
without making any claims of his own, and he has to give 
bodily food whether he receive spiiitual food or not. If the 
exchange were a free one, the conditions on both sides would 
be equal. We agree that spiritual food is as necessary to 
man as bodily. The learned man, the artist, says. Before 
we can begin lo serve men by giving them spiritual food, we 
want men to provide us with bodily food. 

But why should not the producers of this latter say. Before 
we begin to serve you with bodily food, we want spiritual 
food ; and until we receive it, we cannot labor? 

You say, I require the labor of a ploughman, a smith, a 
boot-maker, a carpenter, masons, and others, in order that 1 
may prepare the spiritual food I have to offer. 

Every workman might sa}’, too. Before I go to work, to 
prei)are bodil}” food for you, I want the fruits of the spirit. 
In order to have strength for laboring, I i-equire a religious 
teaching, the social order of common life, application of 
knowledge to labor, and the joys and comforts which art 
gives. I have no time to work out for myself a teaching 
cojicerning the meaning of life, — give it to me. 

1 have no time to think out statutes of common life which 
would prevent the violation of justice, — give me this too. 

1 have no time to study mechanics, natural philosophy, 


178 


WHAT MUST WE DO TEEN? 


chemistry, technology ; give me books with information as to 
how 1 am to improve my tools, my ways of working, my 
dwelling, the heating and lighting of it. 1 have no time to 
occupy myself with poetry, with i)lastic art, or music ; give me 
those excitements and comforts necessary for life ; give 
me these productions of the arts. 

You say it is impossible for 3'ou to do your important and 
necessary business if you were to be deprived of the labor 
working-peoi)le do for you ; and I say, a workman may 
declare. It is impossible forme to do my important 'and neces- 
sary business, not less important than 3’ours, — to plough, to 
cart awa}’ refuse, and clean ijour houses, — if I be deprived 
of a religious guidance corresponding to the wants of my 
intellect and my conscience, of a reasonable government 
which would secure mv labor, of information for easing my 
labor, and the enjoyment of art to ennoble it. All you have 
offered me in the shape of spiritual food, is not only of no 
use to me whatever, but 1 cannot even understand to whom 
it could be of any use. And until I receive this nourish- 
ment, proper for me as for every man, I cannot produce 
bodily food to feed you with. 

What if the working-people should speak thus ? And if they 
said so, it would be no jest, but the simplest justice. If a 
workingman snid this, he would be far more in tlie right than 
a man of intellectual labor ; because the labor produced by 
the workingman is more urgent and more necessary tlian 
that done by the producer of intellectual work, and because 
a man of intellect is hindered by nothing from giving that 
spiritual food which he promised to give, but the working- 
man is hindered in giving the bodily food by the fact that he 
himself is short of it. 

What, then, should we, men of intellectual labor, answer, if 
such simple and lawful claims were made upon us? How 
should we satisfy these claims ? Should we satisfy the religious 
wants of the peojile by the catechism of Philaret, by sacred 
histories of Sokolof, by the literature sent out by various 
monasteries and St. Isaak’s cathedral? And should we satisfy" 
their demand for order by the Code of Laws, and cassation 
verdicts of different dei)artments, or by statutes of committees 
and commissions? And should we satisfy their want of knowl- 
edge by giving them specti'um analysis, a survey of the 
]\Iilky Way, speculative geometry, microsco[)ic investigations, 
controversies concerning spiritualism and mediumism, the 


WIIAT MUST WE DO THEN? 


179 


activity of academies of science? How should we satisfy 
their artistic wants? By Pushkin, Dosto^'evsky, I'urgenief, 
L. Tolstoi, 1)}’ pictures of French salons^ and of those of 
our artists who represent naked women, satin, velvet, and 
landscapes, and pictures of domestic life, by the music of 
Wagner, and that of our own musicians? 

All this is of no use, and cannot be of any use, because we, 
with our right to utilize the labor of the people, and absence 
of all duties in our preparation of their s[)iritual food, have 
quite lost from sight the single destination our activity- should 
have. 

We do not even know what is required by the working- 
man ; we have even forgotten his mode of life, his views of 
things, his language; we have even lost sight of the very 
working-people themselves, and we study them like some 
etlinograi)hical rarity or newly discovered continent. Now, 
we, demanding for ourselves bodily food, have taken upon 
ourselves to provide the spiritual ; but in consequence of the 
imaginai-y division of labor, according to which we may not 
only first take our dinner, and afterwards do our work, but 
may during many generations dine luxuriously, and do no 
work, — in the way of compensation for our food we have 
prepared something which is of use, as it seems to us, for 
ourselves and for science and art, but of no use whatever for 
those very people whose labor we consume under the pre- 
text of providing them in return with intellectual food, and 
not only of no use, but quite unintelligible and distasteful to 
them. 

In our blindness we have to such a degree left out of sight 
tlie duty which we took upon us, that we have even forgotten 
for what our labor is being done ; and the very people whom 
w’e undertook to serve, we have made an object of our 
scientific and artistic activities. We study them and repre- 
sent them for our own pleasure and amusement: we have 
quite forgotten that it is our duty, not to study and depict, 
but to serve them. 

We have to such a degree left out of sight the duty which 
we assumed, that we have not even noticed that other people 
do what we undertook in the dei)artments of science and art, 
and that our place turns out to be occiq)ied. 

It appears that, while we have been in controversy, now 
about the immaculate conception, and now about spontaneous 
generation of organisms ; now about spiritualism, and now 


180 


WUAT MUST WE BO THEN? 


about the forms of atoms ; now about pangenesis, now about 
protoplasms, and so on, — the rest of the world none the less 
required intellectual food, and the abortive outcasts of science 
and art began to provide for the people this sjjiritual food bj' 
order of various speculators who had in view exclusively 
their own profit and gain. 

Now, for some forty years in Phurope, and ten years in 
Russia, millions of books and pictures and songs have been 
circulating ; shows have been opened : and the people look 
and sing, and receive intellectual food, thougli not from those 
wlio promised to provide it for tliem ; and we, who justify 
our idleness by the need for that intellectual food which we 
pretend to provide for the people, are sitting still, and taking 
no notice. 

But we cannot do so, because our final justification has 
vanished from under our feet. We have taken upon our- 
selves a peculiar department: we have a peculiar functional 
activity of our own. We are the brain of the people. The}" 
feed us, and we have undertaken to teach them. Only for the 
sake of this have we freed ourselves from labor. What, 
then, have we been teaching them? They have waited^ j^ears, 
tens of years, hundreds of years. And we are still convers- 
ing among ourselves, and teaching each other, and amusing 
ourselves, and have quite forgotten them ; we have so totally 
foi'gotten them, that others have taken upon themselves to 
teach and amuse them, and we have not even become aware 
of this in our flippant talk about division of labor : and it 
is very obvious that all our talk about the utility we offer to 
the people was only a shameful excuse. 


XXXIII. 

There was a time when the Church guided the intellectual 
life of the men of our world. The Church promised men 
happiness, and, in compensation for this, she freed herself 
from taking part in mankind’s common struggle for life. 

And, as soon as she did so, she went astray from her call- 
ing, and men turned away from her. It was not the errors 
of the Church which caused her ruin, but the fact that her 
ministers had violated the law of labor with the help of the 
secular power in the time of Constantine, and their claim to 
idleness and luxury gave birth to her errors. 


WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 


181 


As soon as she obtained this right, she began to care for 
herself, and not for man, whom she had taken upon herself 
to serve. The ministers of the Church gave themselves up to 
idleness and depravity. 

The State took upon itself to guide men’s lives, d'he 
State promised men justice, peace, security, order, satisfac- 
tion for common intellectual and material wants, and in 
compensation men w'ho served the State freed themselves 
from taking part in the struggle for life. And the Stale’s 
servants, as soon as the}’ were enabled to utilize other men’s 
labor, have acted in the same way as the ministers of the 
Church. 

They had not in view the people ; but the state servants, 
from kings down to the lowest functionaries, in Rome, as 
well as in France, England, Russia, and Ameilca, gave them- 
selves over to idleness and depravity. 

And men lost their faith in the state, and now anarchy is 
seriously advocated as an ideal. 

The State lost its prestige among men, only because its 
ministers claimed the right of utilizing for themselves the 
peopk’s labor. 

Science and art have done the same with the assistance of 
the state power which they took upon themselves to sustain. 
They have also claimed and obtained for themselves the 
right of idleness, and of utilizing other men’s labor, and 
have also been false to their calling. And their errors also 
proceeded only from tlie fact that their ministers, pointing to 
a falsely conceived principle of the division of labor, claimed 
for themselves the right to utilize the work of the people, and 
so lost the meaning of their calling, making the aim of their 
activity, not the utility of tlie people, but a mysterious activity 
of science and art ; and also, like their forerunners, they have 
given tliemselves over to idleness and depravity, though not 
so much to a fleshly, as to an intellectual, corruption. 

It is said, science and art have done much for mankind. 

This is quite true. 

Science and art also have done much for mankind, not be- 
cause, l)ut in si)ite of, the fact that men of science and art, 
iindi'r the pretext of division of labor, live upon the shoulders 
of the working-people. 

The Roman Republic was powerful, not because its citizens 
were able to lead a life of depravity, l)ut because it could 
number amongst them men who were virtuous. 


182 


WHAT MUST WE BO THEN? 


The same is the case with science and art. 

Science and art have effected nuich for mankind, not be- 
cause their ministers had sometimes formerly, and have 
always at present, the possibility of freeing themselves from 
laboring, but because men of genius, not utilizing these 
rights, have forwarded the progress of mankind. 

The class of learned men and artists wdio claim, on account 
of a false division of labor, the right of utilizing other men’s 
labor, cannot contribute to the progress of true science and 
true art, because a lie can never produce a truth. 

We are so accustomed to our pampered or debilitated rep- 
resentatives of intellectual labor, that it would seem very 
sti’ange if a learned man or an artist were to plough or cart 
manure. We think that, were he to do so, all would go to 
ruin ; that all his wisdom would be shaken out of him, and 
the great arlistic images he carries in his breast would be 
soiled by the manure : but we are so accustomed to our pres- 
ent conditions that we do not wonder at our ministers of 
science, that is, ministers and teachers of truth, compelling 
other })eople to do for them that which they could very well 
do themselves, i)assing half their time eating, smoking>chat- 
tering in ‘‘liberal” gossip, reading newspapers, novels, 
visiting theatres ; we are not surprised to see our philosopher 
in aii inn, in a theatre, at a ball ; we do not wonder when we 
learn that those artists who delight and ennoble our souls, 
pass their lives in drunkenness, in playing cards, in coinpan}" 
with loose women, or do things still worse. 

Science and art are line things : but just because they are 
fine things, men ought not to spoil them by associating them 
with depravity ; by freeing themselves from man’s dut}' to 
serve by labor his own life and the lives of other men. 

Science and art have forwarded the progress of mankind. 
Yes; but this was not done by the fact that men of science 
and art, under the pretext of a division of labor, taught men 
by word, and chiefly by deed, to utilize by violence the 
misery and sufferings of the people, in order to free them- 
selves from the very first and unquestionable human duty of 
laboring with their hands iu the common struggle of mankind 
with nature. 


WHAT MUST WE DO THEN f 


183 


XXXIV. 


“ Bct it is,” you say, “ this very division of labor, the 
freeing men of science and of art from the necessity of earn- 
ing their bread, that has rendered possible that extraordinary 
success in science which we see in our days. 

“If everybody were to plough, these enormous results 
would not be attained ; there would not be those astonishing 
successes which have so enlarged man’s power over nature ; 
there would not be those discoveries in astronomy which 
so strike the minds of men and promote navigation ; there 
would be no steamers, railways, wonderful bridges, tunnels, 
steam-engines, and telegraphs, photographs, telephones, 
sewing-machines, phonographs, electricity, telescopes, spec- 
troscopes, microscopes, chloroform, Lister bandages, carbolic 
acid.’^ 

1 will not attempt to enumerate all the things of which our 
century is so proud. This enumeration, and the ecstasy of 
contemplation of ourselves and of our great deeds, you may 
find in-.almost every newspaper and popular book. 

These rai)tures of self-contemplation are so often repeated, 
and we are so seldom tired of praising ourselves, that we 
really come to believe, with Jules Verne, that science and art 
have never made such progress as in our time. And all this 
is rendered possible only by division of labor : how can we, 
then, avoid countenancing it? 

Let us suppose that tlie progress of our century is indeed 
striking, astonishing, extraordinary ; let us suppose that 
we, too, are particularly lucky in living at such an extraor- 
dinary time : but let us try to ascertain the value of these 
successes, not by our own self-contentment, but by the very 
principle of the division of labor; that is, by that intellect- 
ual labor of men of science for the advantage of the people 
which has to compensate for the freeing men of science and 
art from labor. 

All this progress is very striking indeed ; but owing to 
some unlucky chance, recognized, too, by men of science, 
this progress has not as yet ameliorated, but it has rather 
deteriorated, the condition of workingmen. 

Though a workingman, instead of walking, can use the 
railway, it is this very railway which has caused his forest 
to be burned, and has carried away his bread from under 


184 


WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 


his very nose, and put him into a condition which is next 
door to slavery to the railway proprietor. 

If, thanks to the engines and steam-machines, a working- 
man can buy cheap and poor calico, it will be these very 
engines and machines which have deprived him of his 
wages, and brought him to a state of entire slaveiy to the 
manufacturer. 

If there are telegraphs, which he is not forbidden to use, 
but which he does not use because he cannot afford it, then 
each of his productions, the value of which fluctuates, is 
bought up from under his very eyes by capitalists at low 
prices, thanks to the telegraph, before the workingiuan 
even becomes aware tliat the article is in demand. 

Though there are telephones and telescopes, novels, operas, 
picture-galleries, and so on, the life of the workingman is 
not at all improved b}’ an}’ of them, because all, owing to 
the same unlucky chance, are beyond his reach. So^ tliat, 
after all, these wonderful discoveries and productions of 
art, if they have not made the life of working-peoi)le worse, 
have by no means improved it : on this the men of science 
are agreed. 

So that, if to the question as to the reality of the suc- 
cesses attained by the sciences and aits, we apply, not our 
rapture of self-contemplation, but the very standard on 
which the ground of the division of labor is defended, — 
utility to the working-world, — we shall see that we have not 
yet an}’ sound reason for the self-contentment to which we 
consign ourselves so willingly. 

A peasant uses the railway ; a peasant’s wife buys calico ; 
in the cottage a lamp, and not a pine-knot, burns ; and the 
peasant lights his pipe with a match, — this is comfortable ; 
but what right have I from this to say that railways and 
factories have done good to the people? 

If a peasant uses the railway, and buys a lamp, calico, and 
matches, he does it only because we cannot forbid his doing 
so : we all know very well that railways and factories have 
never been built for the use of the people ; why, then, should 
the casual comfort a workingman obtains by chance, be 
brought forward as a proof of the usefulness of these insti- 
tutions to the people? 

We all know very well that if those engineers and capi- 
talists who build a railway or a factory have been thinking 
about working-people, they have been thinking only how 


WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 


185 


to make the best possible use of them. And we see they 
have fully succeeded in doing so as well in Russia as in 
Euroi)e and America. 

In every hurtful tlmig, there is something useful. After 
a house has been burned down, we may sit and warm our- 
selves, and light our pipes with one of the fire-brands ; but 
should we tlierefore say that a conflagration is beneficial? 

Whatever we do, let us not deceive ourselves. We all 
know very well the motives for building railways, and for 
producing kerosene and matches. An engineer builds a 
railway for the government, to facilitate w^ars, or for the 
ca[)italists for financial purposes. He makes machines for 
manufacturers for lus own advantage, and for the profit of 
capitalists. All that he makes or excogitates he does for 
the purpose of the goveiuinent, the capitalists, and other 
rich peo[)le. His most skilful inventions are either directly 
harmful to the people, as guns, torpedoes, solitary prisons, 
and so on ; or they are not only useless, but quite inacces- 
sible to them, as electric light, telei)hones, and the innumer- 
able im[)rovements of comfort ; or lastly, they deprave the 
people, and rob them of their last kopek, that is, their last 
labor, for spirits, wine, beer, opium, tobacco, calicoes, and 
all sorts of trifles. 

But if it happens sometimes that the inventions of men 
of science, and the works of engineers, are of any use to the 
l)eople, as, for instance, railways, calicoes, steel, scythes, it 
only proves that, in this world of ours, all things are mutu- 
ally connected together, and that, out of every hurtful 
jtctivity, there may arise an accidental good for those to 
whom this activity was hurtful. 

;Men of science and of art can say that their activity is 
useful for the people, only if they have aimed in their ac- 
tivity at serving the people, as they do now to serve govern- 
ments and capitalists. 

We could have said that, only if men of science and art 
made the wants of the people their object ; but such is not 
the case. 

All learned men are occupied with their sacred business, 
which leads to the investigation of protoplasms, the spec- 
trum analysis of stars, and so on : but concerning investiga- 
tions as to how to set an axe, or with what kind it is moi’C 
advantageous to hew ; which saw is the most handy ; with 
what flour bread shall be made, how it may best be 


186 


WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 


kneaded, how to set it to rise ; liow to heat and to build 
stoves ; what food, drink, crockei:y-ware, it is best to use ; 
what mushrooms may be eaten, and how they may be pre- 
pared more conveniently, — science- has never troubled 
itself. 

And yet all this is the business of science. 

I know that, according to its own definition, science must 
be useless ; but this is only an excuse, and a very impudent 
one. 

The business of science is to serve people. We have 
invented telegraphs, telephones, phonographs, but what 
improvements have we made in the life of the people? We 
have catalogued two millions of insects ! but have we do- 
mesticated a single animal since biblical times, when all 
our animals had long been domesticated, and still the elk 
and the deer, and the partridge and the grouse and the 
wood-hen, are wild? 

Botanists have discovered the cells, and in the cells proto- 
plasms, and in protoplasms something else, and in this some- 
thing else again. 

These occupations will evidently never end. and therefore 
learned men have no time to do any thing useful. And hence 
from the times of the ancient Egyptians and Hebrews, when 
wheat and lenlils were already cultivated, down to the pres- 
ent time, not a single plant has been added for the nourish- 
ment of the people except potatoes, and these have not been 
discovered by science. We have invented torpedoes, house- 
drains ; but the spinning-wheel, weaving-looms, ploughs and 
axe-handles, flails and rakes, buckets and well-sweeps, are 
still the same as in the time of Rurik. 

And if some things have been improved, it is not the 
learned who have done it. 

The same is the case with art. We have praised up many 
great writers, have carefully sifted these writers, and have 
written mountains of critiques and criticisms upon critics ; 
we have collected pictures in galleries, and we have thor- 
oughly studied all the schools of art ; and we have such sym- 
phonies and operas that we ourselves are tired of listening 
to ; but what have we added to the folk-lore, legends, tales, 
songs? what pictures, what music, have we created for the 
people ? 

Books and pictures are published, and harmoniums are 
made for the people, but we do not care for either. 


WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 


187 


That which is most striking and obvious, is the false ten- 
dency of onr science and art, which manifests itself in those 
departments which, according to their own propositions, would 
seem to be useful to people, and which, owing to this ten- 
dency, appear rather pernieious than useful. An engineer, 
a surgeon, a teacher, an artist, an author, seem by their very 
professions to be obliged to serve the people, but what do 
we see? 

With the present tendency, the}’ can bring to the people 
nothing but harm. An engineer and a mechanic must work 
with capital : without capital they are good for nothing. 

All their informations are such, that, in order to make use 
of them, they need capital and the employment of working- 
people on a large scale, to say nothing of the fact that they 
themselves are accustomed to spend from fifteen hundred 
to two thousand rubles a year, and therefore they cannot go to 
a village, since no one there can give them any such remu- 
neration : they, from their very occupations, are not fit for 
the service of the peoi)le. 

I'hey understand how to calculate by means of the highest 
nriathematics the arcli of a bridge, how to calculate power 
and the transfer of power in an engine, and so on : but they 
will be at a loss to meet the plain requirements of popular 
labor; they do not know how to improve the plough or the 
cart ; how to make a brook passable, taking into considera- 
tion the conditions of a workingman’s life. 

They know and understand nothing of all this, less even 
than does the poorest peasant. Give them workshops, 
plenty of people, order engines from abroad, then they will 
ai-range these matters. But to find out how to ease the labor 
of millions of people in their present condition, they do not 
know, and cannot do it ; and accordingly, by their knowledge 
and habits and wants, they are not at all fit for this business. 
A surgeon is in a still worse condition. His imaginary sci- 
ence is such that he understands how to cure those only who 
have nothing to do, and who may utilize other men’s labor. 
He requires a countless number of expensive accessories, in- 
struments, medicines, sanitary dwellings, food, and drains, 
in order that he may act scientifically : besides his fee, he 
demands such expenses, that, in order to cure one patient, 
he must kill with starvation hundreds of those who bear this 
expense. 

He has studied under eminent persons in the capital cities, 


188 


WUAT MUST WE DO THEN? 


who attend only to such patients whom they may take into 
hospitals, or who can afford to buy all tlie necessary medi- 
cines and machines, and even go at once from north to the 
south, to these or those mineral waters, as the case may be. 

Their science is such that every country surgeon complains 
that there is no possibility of attending to the wmrking-peo- 
ple, who are so poor that they cannot afford sanitarj’ accom- 
modations, and that there are no hospitals, and that he 
cannot attend to the business alone, that he requires help 
and assistant-surgeons. What does this really mean? 

It means this, — that the want of the necessaries of life is 
the chief cause of people’s misfortunes, and as well the 
S(;urce of diseases as also of their spreading and incurability. 
And now science, under the banners of the division of labor, 
calls its cham[)ions to help the people. Science has settled 
satisfactorily about rich classes, and seeks how to cure those 
who can get every thing necessary for the purpose, and it 
sends persons to cure in the same way those who have noth- 
ing to spare. But there are no means ; and therefore they 
are to be raised from the people, who become ill, and catch 
diseases, and cannot be cured for want of means. 

The advocates of the healing art for the people say, that, 
up to the present time, this business has not been sufficiently 
developed 

Evidently it is not yet developed, because if, which God 
forbid ! it were developed among our people, and, instead of 
two doctors and mid wives and two assistant-surgeons in the 
district, there should be twenty sent, as they want, then there 
would soon be no one left to attend to. The scientific co- 
oj)eration for the people must be quite a different one. And 
such co-operation which ought to be, has not yet begun. 

It will begin when a man of science, an engineer, or a 
surgeon, will cease to consider as lawful that division of 
labor, or rather that taking away other men’s labor, which now 
exists, and when he no longer considers that he has the right 
to take, I do not say hundreds of thousands, but even a 
moderate sum of one thousand or five hundred rubles as 
a compensation for his services ; but when such a man comes 
to live among laboi'ing-people in the same condition and in 
the same way as they, then he will apply his information in 
mechanics, technics, Iwgiene, to the curing of working- people. 

But now scientific men, who are fed at ihe expense of the 
working man, have quite forgotten the conditions of the life 


WIIAT MUST WE BO THEN? 


189 


of these men : they ignore (as they say) tliese conditions, and 
are quite seriously otf ended that their imaginary knowledge 
does not find ap[)lication among tlie people. 

The departments as well of the healing art as the me- 
chanical have not yet been touched : the questions how best 
to divide the time of labor, how and upon what it is best to 
feed, how best to dress, how to counteract dam[)ness and 
cold, how best to wash, to suckle, and swaddle children, and so 
on, and all these applied to those conditions in which the 
working-people are, — all these questions have not yet been 
put. 

The same applies to the activity of scientific teachers, — 
pedagogues. ^Science has arranged this business, too, in such 
a way that teaching according to science is possible only for 
those who are rich ; and the teachers, like the engineers and 
surgeons, are involuntaril}’ drawn towards money, and among 
us in Russia especially tow'ards the government. 

And this cannot be otherwise, because a school properly 
arranged (and the general rule is, that the more scientifically 
a school is arranged, the more expensive it is), with convert- 
ible benches, globes, maps, libraries, and method manuals for 
teachers and pupils, is just such a school for whose mainten- 
ance it is necessary to double the taxes of the people. So 
science wants to have it. The children are necessary for 
work, and the more so with the poorer people. The advocates 
of science say. Pedagogy is even now of use for the people ; 
but let it be developed, and instead of twenty schools in a 
district, let there be a hundred, all of them scientificall}’ ar- 
ranged, and the people will sup[)ort these schools. But then 
they will be still poorer, and will want the labor of their 
children still more urgently. 

What is then to be done? 

To this they reply. The government will establish schools, 
and will make education obligatory as it is in the rest of 
Europe. But the money will still have to be raised from the 
people, and labor will be still harder for them, and they will 
have less time to spare from their labor, and there will be 
then no obligatory education at all. 

There is, again, only one escape, — for a teacher to live in the 
conditions of a workingman, and to teach for that compen- 
sation which will be freely offered him. Such is the false 
tendency of science which deprives it of the possibility to 
fulfil its duty in serving the people. But this false tendency 


190 


WUAT MUST WE BO THEN? 


of our eclueiited class is still more obvious iu art-activity, 
which, for the sake of its very meaiiiug, ought to be accessible 
to the people. 

Science may point to its stupid excuse that science is acting 
for science, and that, when it will be fully developed, it will 
become accessible to the people ; but art, if it is art indeed, 
ought to be accessible to all, especially to those for the sake 
of whom it is created. And our art strikingly denounces its 
factors in that they do not wish, and do not understand, and 
are not able to be of use to the people. A painter, in order 
to produce his great works, must have a large studio, in which 
at least forty joiners or boot-makers might work, who are 
now freezing or sutfocatiug iu wretched lodgings ; but this is 
not all : he requires models, costumes, journe3’s from place 
to place. The Academy of Art has spent millions of rubles 
collected from the people for the encouragement of art; and 
the productions of this art are hung in palaces, and are 
neither intelligible to the people, nor wanted by them. 

Musicians, in order to express their great ideas, must 
gather about two hundred men with white neckties or in 
costumes, and spend hundreds of thousands of rubles to arrange 
operas. But this art-i)roduction would never appear to the 
people (even if the}" could afford to use it) as anj^ thing but per- 
plexing or dull, 'file authors, writers, seem not to want any 
l)articuhir accommodations, studios, models, orchestras, and 
actors ; but here also it turns out that an author, a writer, to 
say nothing of all the comforts of his dwelling and all the 
comforts of his life, in order to prepare his great works, wants 
travelling, palaces, cabinets, enjoyments of art, theatres, 
coneerts, mineral waters, and so on. If he himself has not 
saved iq) enough money for this purpose, he is given a pen- 
sion in order that he may compose better. And, again, these 
writings, which we value so highly, remain for the people, 
rubbish, and are not at all necessary to them. 

What if, according to the wish of men of science and art, 
such producers of mental food should multiply, so that, in 
every village, it would be necessary to build a studio, provide 
an orchestra, and keep an author in the conditions wliich men 
of art consider indispensable to them ? I dare say working- 
people would make a vow never to look at a i)icture, or listen 
to a symphony, or read poetry and novels, in order only not to 
be compelled to feed all these good-for-nothing parasites. 

And why should not men of art serve the people? Jn 


WHAT MUST WE 1)0 THEN? 


191 


every cottage, there are holy images and i)ictiires ; each peas- 
ant, each woman of the people, sings ; many have instruments 
of music ; and all can relate stories, repeat poetry ; and many 
of them read. How came it to pass that these two things 
were separated which were as much made for one another as 
a key for a lock, and how are they so separated that we can- 
not imagiue how to re-unite them ? 

Tell a painter to paint without a studio, models, costumes, 
and to draw penny pictures, he will say that this would be a 
denying of art as he understands it. Tell a musician to play 
on a harmonium, and to teach country-women to sing songs ; 
tell a poet to throw aside writing poems and novels and 
satiresj and to compose song-books for the people, and 
stories and tales which might be intelligible to ignorant 
persons, — they will say you are cracked. 

But is it not being worse than cracked wdien men, who 
have freed themselves from labor because they promised to 
provide mental food for those who have brouglit them up, 
and are feeding and clothing them, afterwards have so for- 
gotten their i)romise that the}' have ceased to understand 
how to make food fit for the people? Yet this very forsaking 
of their promises they consider dignifies them. Such is the 
case everywhere, they say. l>erywhere the case is very 
unreasonable, then; and it will be so while men, under the 
pretext of division -of labor, promise to provide mental food 
for the people, but only swallow up the labor of the peo- 
ple. Men will serve the people with science and art, only 
when, living among and in the same way as do the people, 
putting forth no claims whatever, they offer to the people 
their scientific and artistic services, leaving it to the free will 
of the people to accept or refuse them. 


XXXV. 

To say that the activities of the arts and sciences have co- 
operated in forwarding the progress of mankind, and by 
these activities to mean that which is now called by this 
name, is the same as to say that an awkward moving of the 
oars, hindering the progress of a boat going down the 
stream, is forwarding the progress of the boat; but it only 
hinders it. The so-called division of labor — that is, the 
violation of other men’s labor which has become in our 


192 


WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 


time a, condition of the activity of men of art and science — 
lias been, and still remains, the chief cause of the slowness 
of the progress of mankind. 

The proof of it we have in the acknowledgment of all 
men of science and ai-t that the acquisitions of art and 
science are not accessible to the working-classes because of a 
wrong distribution of wealth. And the incorrectness of this 
distribution does not diminish in proportion to the progress 
of art and science, but rather increases. And it is not as- 
tonishing that such is the case ; because the incon*ect distri- 
bution of wealth proceeds solely from the theory of the 
division of labor, preached by men of art and science for 
selfish purposes. 

Science, defending the division of labor as an unchange- 
able law, sees that the distribution of wealth based upon the 
division of labor is incorrect and pernicious, and asserts 
that its activity, which recognizes the division of labor, 
will set all right again, and lead men to happiness. 

It appears, then, that some men utilize the labor of 
others ; but if they will only continue to do this for a long 
time, and on a still larger scale, then this incorrect distribu- 
tion of wealth, that is, utilizing of other men’s labor, will 
vanish. 

Men are standing an ever-increasing spring of water, 
and are busy turning it aside from thirst}' men, and then 
they assert that it is they who |)roduce this water, and that 
soon there will be so much of it that everybody will have 
enough and to spare. And this water, which has been run- 
ning unceasingly, and nourishing all mankind, is not only 
not the result of the activity of those men, who, standing 
at the source of it, turn it aside, but this water runs and 
spreads itself in spite of the endeavors of those men to stop 
it from doing so. 

There has always existed a true church, — in other words, 
men united by the highest truth accessible to them at a cer- 
tain epoch, — but it has never been that church which gave 
herself out for such ; and there have always been real art and 
science, but it was not that which calls itself now by these 
names. 

]\Ien who consider themselves to be the representatives of 
art and science in a given period of time, always imagine that 
they have been doing, and will continue to do, wonderful 
things, and that beyond them there has never been any art 


WnAT MUST WE DO TUEN f 


193 


or science. Thus it seemed to the sophists, to the scho- 
liasts, alchemists, cabalists, Talmudists, and to our own 
scientific science and to our artistic art. " 


XXXVI. 

• 

“But science! art! You repudiate science, art; that is, 
3 ’on repudiate that by which mankind live.” 

1 am always hearing this : people choose this wa}^ to put 
aside my arguments altogether without analyzing them. He 
repudiates science and art ; he wishes to turn men back 
again to the savage state ; why, then, should we listen to him, 
or argue with him? 

But it is unjust. I not only do not repudiate science — 
human reasonable activity — and art, — the expression of 
this reasonable activity, — but it is only in the name of this 
reasonable activity’ and its expression that I say what I do, 
in order that mankind may avoid the savage state towards 
which they are rapidly moving, owing to the false teaching 
of our time. 

Science and art are as necessary to men as food, drink, 
and clothes, — even still more necessary than these ; but they 
become such, not because we decide that what we call science 
and art are necessary, but because the}" indeed are necessary 
to men. Now, if I should prepare hay for the bodily food of 
men, my idea that hay is the food for men would not make 
it to be so. I cannot say. Why do you not eat hay when it 
is your necessary food? Food is, indeed, necessary, but 
perhaps what I offer is not food at all. 

This very thing has happened w"ith our science and art. 
And to us it seems that when we add to a Greek word the 
termination l>gy^ and call this science, it will be science in- 
deed ; and if we call an indecency, like the dancing of naked 
women, by the Greek word “ choreography,” and term it art, 
it will be art indeed. 

But however much we may say this, the business which we 
are about, in counting up the insects, and chemically analyz- 
ing the contents of the Milky Way. in |)ainting water-nymphs 
and historical pictures, in writing novels, and in composing 
symphonies, this, our business, will not become science or 
art until it is willingly accepted by those for whom it is being 
done. 


194 


WHAT MUST WE BO THEN? 


And till now it has not been accepted. If only some men 
were allowed to prepare food, and all others vyere either for- 
bidden to do it, or be rendered incapable of producing it, I 
dare say that the quality of the food would deteriorate. If 
these men who have the exclusive privilege of producing 
food were Russian peasants, then there would be no other 
food than black bread, kvas, potatoes, and Hour, which they 
are fond of, and which is agreeable to them. The same 
would be the case with that highest human activity in art and 
science if their exclusive privilege were appropriated by one 
caste, with this difference only, that in bodily food there can- 
not be too great digressions from the natural ; bread as well 
as onions, though unsavory food, is still eatable : but in 
mental food, there may be great digressions ; and some men 
may for a very long time feed upon an unnecessary, or even 
hurtful and poisonous, mental food ; they themselves may 
slowly kill themselves with opium or with spirits, and this 
sort of food they ma^’ offer to the masses of the people. 

This very thing has happened with us. And it has hap- 
pened because men of art and science are in i)rivileged con- 
ditions ; because art and science in our world are not that 
mental activity of all mankind, without au}^ exception, who 
separate their best powers for the service of art and science : 
but it is the activity of a small company of men having the 
monopoly of these occu[)ations, and calling themselves men 
of art and science ; and therefore they have perverted the 
very conceptions of art and science, and lost the sense 
of their own calling, and are merely occupied in amusing, 
and saving from burdensome duluess, a small company of 
parasites. 

Since men have existed, they have always had science in 
the plainest and largest sense of the word. Science, as the 
sum of all human information, has always been in existence; 
and without it life is not conceivable, and there is no neces- 
sity whatever either to attack or to defend it. 

Rut the fact is this, that the region of this knowledge is 
so vai'ious, so much information of all kinds enters into it, 
from the information how to obtain iron iq) to the knowledge 
about the movements of the celestial l)odies. that man would 
be lost among all this varied information if he had no clew 
which could help him to decide which of all these kinds of 
information is more, and which less, important. 

And, therefore, the highest wisdom of men has always 


WHAT MUST WE DO THEN f 


195 


consisted in finding out the clew according to which must be 
arranged th^ information of men, and by which decided what 
kinds of information are more, and what are less, important. 
And this wliich has directed all other knowledge, men have 
always called science in the strictest sense of the word. And 
such science has alwa^’s been, up to the present time, in hu- 
man societies which have left the savage state behind them. 
Since mankind has existed, in every nation teachers have 
ai)i)eared to form science in this strict sense, — the science 
about what it is most necessary for men to know. This sci- 
ence has always had for its object the inquiry as to what 
was the destiny, and therefore the true welfare, of each man 
and of all men. This science has served as a clew in deter- 
mining the importance and the expi'ession of all other sci- 
ences. The kinds of information and the art which co-operated 
with the science of man’s destiny and welfare were con- 
sidered highest in public opinion. 

Such was the science of Confucius, Buddha, jNIoses, 
Socrates, Christ, Mohammed, — science such as it has been 
understood by all men except b}' our own circle of so-called 
educated people. 

Such a science has not only always occupied the first place, 
but it is the one science which has determined the importance 
of other sciences. Aiul this, not at all because so-called 
learned men of our time imagine that it is only deceitful 
priests and teachers of this science who have given it such 
an importance, but because, indeed, as every one can learn 
by his own inward experience, without the science of man’s 
destiny and welfare, there cannot be any determining of 
other values, or any choice of art and science for man. And, 
therefore, there cannot be any study of science, for there 
are innumerable quantities of subjects to which science may 
be api)lied. 1 italicize the word innumerable, as I use it in 
its exact value. 

AVithout knowledge as to what constitutes the calling and 
welfare of all men, all other arts and sciences become, as is 
really the case at i)resent with us, only an idle and pernicious 
amusement. Mankind have been living long, and they have 
never been living without a science relative to the calling and 
welfare of men : it is true that the science of the welfare of 
men to a superficial observation appears to be different with 
Buddhists, Brahmins, Hebrews, Christians, with the followers 
of Confucius and those of Laotse, though one need only 


196 


WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 


reflect on these teachings in order to see their essential unity ; 
where men have left the savage state behind them, we find 
this science ; and now of a sudden it turns out that modern 
men have decided that this very science which has been till 
now the guide of all human information, is that which is in 
the way of every thing. 

Men build houses : one architect makes one estimate, an- 
other makes a second, and so on. Tlie estimates are a little 
different, but they are separately correct ; and every one sees 
that, if each estimate is fulfilled, the house will be erected. 
Such architects are Confucius, Buddha, Moses, Christ. And 
now some men come and assure us that the chief thing to 
come by is the absence of any estimate, and that men ought 
to build anyhow according to eye>ight. And this “ an}'- 
how ” these men call the most exact science, as the Pope 
terms himself the “ most holy.” 

Men deny every science, the most essential science of 
man’s calling and welfare ; and this denial of science they 
call science. Since men have existed, great intellects have 
always appeared, which, in the struggle with the demands of 
their reason and conscience, have put to themselves questions 
concerning the calling and welfare, not only of themselves 
individually, but of every man. What does that Power, 
which created me, require from me and from each man? 
And what am I to do in order to satisfy the craving in- 
grafted in me for a personal and common welfare? 

They have asked themselves, I am a whole and a part of 
something unfathomable, infinite : what are to be my rela- 
tions to other parts similar to me, — to men and to the whole? 

And from the voice of conscience and from reason, and 
from considerations on what men have said who lived before, 
and from contemporaries who have asked themselves the 
same questions, these great teachers have deduced teachings, 
— ))lain, clear, intelligible to all men, and always such as 
could be put into practice. 

The world is full of such men. All living men put to 
themselves the question. How am I to reconcile my own 
demands for personal life with conscience and reason, which 
demand the common good of all men? And out of this com- 
mon travail are evolved slowly, but unceasingly, new forms 
of life, satisfying more and more the demands of reason and 
conscience. 

And of a sudden a new caste of men appears, who say, 


WHAT MUST WE BO THEN? 


197 


All these are nonsense, and are to be left behind. This is 
the deductive way of thinking (though wherein lies the differ- 
ence between the inductive and the deductive way of think- 
ing, nobody ever has been able to understand), and tliis is 
also the method of the theological and metaphysical periods. 

All that men have understood by inward experience, and 
have related to each other concerning the consciousness of 
the law of their own life (functional activity, in their cant 
phrase) ; all that from the beginning of the world has been 
done in this direction by the greatest intellects of mankind, — 
all these are trifles, having no weight whatever. 

According to this new teaching. You are a cell of an 
organism, and the problem of your reasonable activity con- 
sists in trying to ascertain your functional activity. In 
order to ascertain this, you must make observations outside 
yourself. 

The fact that you are a cell which thinks, suffers, speaks, 
and understands, and that for that very reason you can 
inquire of another similar speaking, suffering cell whether he 
or she suffers and rejoices in the same way as yourself, and 
that thus you may verify your own experience ; and the fact 
that you may make use of what the speaking cells, who lived 
and suffered before you wrote on the subject; and your 
knowledge that millions of cells, agreeing with what the past 
cells have written, confirm your own experience, that you 
yourself are a living cell, who always, by a direct inward 
experience, apprehend the correctness or incorrectness of 
your own functional activity, — all this means nothing, we 
are told : it is all a false and evil method. 

The true scientific method is this : If 3^011 wish to learn 
in what consists j^our functional activity, what is 3’our des- 
tiny and welfare, and what the destin3' of mankind, and of 
the whole world, then first 3^011 must cease to listen to the 
voice and demands of 3"our conscience and of your reason, 
which manifest themselves inwardly to 3^011 and to your fel- 
low-men ; you must leave off believing all the great teachers 
of humanity have said about their own conscience and reason, 
and 3’ou must consider all this to be nonsense, and begin 
at the beginning. 

And in order to begin from the beginning, yon have to 
observe through a microscope the movements of amoebae 
and the cells of tape-worms ; or, still easier, you must be- 
lieve every thing that people with the diploma of infallibility 


198 


WHAT MUST WE BO THEN? 


may tell you about them. And observing the movements of 
these am(jeb[3B and cells'^ or reading what others have seen, 
you must ascribe to these cells your own human feelings and 
calculations as to what they desire, what are their tendencies, 
their reflections and calculations, their habits ; and from 
these observations (in which each word contains some mis- 
take of thought or of expression), according to analogy, you 
must deduce what is your own destiny, and what that of other 
cells similar to you. 

In order to be able to understand yourself, 3'ou must study 
not merely the tape-worm which you see, but also micro- 
scopic animalcules which you cannot see, and the transfor- 
mation from one set of beings into another, which neither 
you nor anybody else has ever seen, and which you certainly 
will never see. 

The same holds good with art. Wherever a true science 
has existed, it has been expressed by art. Since men have 
existed they have always separated out of all their activities, 
from their varied information, the chief expression of science, 
the knowledge of man’s destination and welfare ; and art, 
in the strict sense of the word, has been the expressiou of 
this. 

Since men have existed, there have always been persons 
particular!}^ sensitive to the teaching of man’s welfare and 
destiu}', who have expressed in word, and upon psaltery 
and cymbals, their human struggle with deceit which led them 
aside from their true destiny, and their sufferings in this 
struggle, their hopes about the victory of good, their despair 
about the triumph of evil, and their raptures in expectation 
of coming welfare. 

Since men have existed, the true art, that which has been 
valued by men most highly, had no other destiny than to be 
the expression of science on man’s destiny and welfare. 

Always down to the present time art has served the teach- 
ing of life (afterwards called religion), and it has only been 
this art which men have valued so highh". 

But contemporaneously with the fact that in the place of 
the science of man’s destiny and welfare appeared the science 
of universal knowledge, since science lost its own sense and 
meaning, and the true science has been scornfully called 
religion, true art, as an important activity of men, has dis- 
appeared. 

As long as the church existed, and taught man’s calling 


WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 


199 


and welfare, art served the church, and was true ; but from 
the moment it left the church, and began to serve a science 
which served every thing it met, art lost its meaning, and, 
notwithstanding its old-fashioned claims, and a stupid asser- 
tion that art serves merel}^ art itself, and nothing else, it 
turned out to be a trade which procures luxuries for men, and 
unavoidably mixes itself with choreography, culinary art, 
hair-dressing, and cosmetics, the producers of which may 
call themselves artists with the same right as the poets, 
painters, and musicians of our day. 

Looking back, we see that during thousands of years, from 
among thousands of millions of men who have lived, there 
came forth a few like Confucius, Buddha, Solon, Socrates, 
Solomon, Homer, Isaiah, David. Apparently true artist- 
producers of spiritual food appear seldom among men, not- 
withstanding the fact that they appear, not from one caste 
onl}’, but from among all men ; and it is not without cause 
that mankind have always so higlil}’ valued them. And now 
it turns out that we have no longer any need of all these 
former great factors of art and science. 

Now, according to the law of the division of labor, it is 
possible to manufacture scientific and ailistic factors almost 
mechanically ; and we shall manufacture in the space of ten 
years, more great men of art and science than have been born 
among all men from the beginning of the world. Nowa- 
days there is a trade corporation of learned men and artists, 
and they prepare by an improved way all the mental food 
'which is wanted by mankind. And they have prepared so 
much of it, that there need no longer be any remembrance 
of the old producers, not only of the very ancient, but of 
more recent, ones, — all this, we are told, was the activity 
of the theological and metaphysical period : all had to be 
destroyed, and the true, mental activity began some fifty 
3'ears ago. 

And in these fifty j^ears we have manufactured so many 
great men that in a German university there are more of them 
than have been in the whole world, and of sciences we have 
manufactured a great number too ; for one need onl}" put to 
a Greek word the termination logy, and arrange the sub- 
ject according to ready-made paragraphs, and the science is 
made : we have thus manufactured so many sciences that not 
only one man cannot know them all, but he cannot even 
remember all their names, — these names alone would fill 


200 


WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 


a, large dictionary; and every day new sciences come intx) 
existence. 

In this respect we are like that Finnish teacher who taught 
the children of a land-owner the Finnish language instead of 
the French. lie taught very well ; but there was one draw- 
back, — that nobod}’, except himself, undei-stood it. 

But to this there is also an explanation : Men do not 
understand all the utility of the scientific science because they 
are still under the influence of the theological period of 
knowledge, that stupid period when all the people of the 
Hebrew race, as well as the Chinese and Indians and Greeks, 
understood every thing spoken to them by their great teachers. 

But whatever may be the cause, the fact is this, — that art 
and science have always existed among mankind ; and when 
they really existed, then they were necessary and intelligible 
to all men. 

AV^e are busy about something which we call art and science, 
and it turns out that what we are busy about is neither 
necessary nor intelligil)le to men. And therefore, however 
fine the things we are about may be, we have no right to call 
them art and science. 


XXXVII. 

But it is said to me, “ You only give another narrower defi- 
nition of art and science, which science does not agree with ; 
but even this does not exclude them, and notwithstanding all 
you say, there still remains the scientific and art activities of- 
men like Galileo, Bruno, Homer, Michael Angelo, Beethoven, 
AVagner, and other learned men and artists of lesser magni- 
tude who have devoted all their lives to ait and science.” 

Usually this is said in the endeavor to establish a link 
connecting the activity of former learned men and artists 
with the modern ones, trying to forget that new principle of 
the division of labor by reason of which art and science are 
occupying now a privileged position. 

First of all, it is not possible to establish any such connec- 
tion between the former factors and the modern ones, as the 
holy life of the first Christian has nothing in common with 
the lives of popes : thus, the activity of men like Galileo, 
Shakspeare, Beethoven, has nothing in common with the ac- 
tivities of men like Tyndal. Hugo, and Wagner. As the Holy 
Fathers would have denied any connection with the Popes, 


WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 


201 


so the ancient factors of science would have denied any 
rclationsliip with the modern ones. 

And secondly, owing to that importance which art and 
science ascribe to themselves, we have a very clear standard 
established by them by means of which we are able to deter- 
mine whether they do, or do not, fulfil their destiny ; and we 
therefore decide, not without proofs, but according to their 
own standard, whether that activit}^ which calls itself art and 
science has, or has not, any right to call itself thus. 

Though the P^gyptians or Greek priests performed mys- 
teries known to none but themselves, and said that these 
mysteries included all art and science, I could not, on the 
ground of the asserted utility of these to the people, ascertain 
the reality of their science, because this said science, accord- 
ing to their ipse dixii^ was a supernatural one : but now we 
all have a very clear and plain standard, excluding every 
thing supernatural; art and science promise to put forth the 
mental activity of mankind for the welfare of societ3% or even 
of the whole of mankind. And therefore we have a right to 
call only such activity, art and science, which has this aim 
in view, and attains it. And therefore, however those learned 
men and artists may call themselves, who excogitate the the- 
ory of penal laws, of state laws, and of the laws of nations, 
who invent new guns and explosive substances, who compose 
obscene operas and oi)ei‘ettas, or similarly' obscene novels, 
we have no right to call such activity the activity of art and 
science, because this activity" has not in view the welfare of 
the society or of mankind, but on the contraiy it is directed 
to the harm of men. Therefore none of these efforts are 
either art or science. 

In like manner, however, these learned men may call them- 
selves, who in their simplicity are occu[)ied during all their 
lives with the investigations of the microscopical animalcule 
and of telescopical and spectral phenomena ; or those artists 
who, after having carefully investigated the monuments of 
old times, are busy writing historical novels, making pictures, 
concocting symphonies and beautiful verses. All tliese men, 
notwithstanding all their zeal, cannot be, according to the 
definition of their own science, called men of science and art, 
first because their activity in science for the sake of science, 
and of art for art, has not in view man's welfare ; and sec- 
ondly, because we do not see any results of these activities 
for the welfare of society or mankind. 


202 


WHAT MUST WE BO THEN? 


And the fact that sometimes something comes of their 
activities useful or agreeable for some men, as out of every 
tiling something useful and agreeable may result for some 
men, by no means gives ns any right, according to their own 
scientitic definition, to consider them to be men of art and 
science. 

In like manner, however those men may call themselves 
who excogitate the application of electricity to lighting, heat- 
ing, and motion ; or who invent some new chemical combi- 
nations, producing dynamite or fine colors ; men who 
correctly play Beethoven’s symphonies ; who act on the stage, 
or paint portraits well, domestic pictures, landscapes, and 
other pictures ; who compose interesting novels, the object 
of which is merel}' to amuse rich people, — the activit}" of 
these men, I say, cannot be called art and science, because 
this activity is not directed, like the activit}’ of the brain in 
the organism, to the welfare of the whole, but is guided 
merely by personal gain, privileges, money, which one obtains 
for the inventing and producing of so-called art ; and there- 
fore this activity cannot possibly be sejjarated from other 
covetous, personal activit}', which adds agreeable things to 
life, like the activity of innkeepers, jockcws, milliners, and 
prostitutes, and so on, because the activity of the first, the 
second, and the last, do not come under the definition of art 
and science, on the ground of the division of labor, which 
promises to serve for the welfare of all mankind. 

The scientific definition of art and science is a correct one ; 
but unluckily, the activity of modern art and science does not 
come under it. Some produce directly hurtful things, oth- 
ers useless things ; and a third party invent trifles fit only 
for the use of rich people. They may all be very good per- 
sons, but they do not fulfil what they, according to their own 
definition, have taken upon themselves to fulfil ; and therefore 
they have as little right to call themselves men of art and 
science as the modern clergy, who do not fulfil their duties, 
have the right to consider themselves the bearers and teach- 
ers of divine truth. 

And it is not difficult to understand why the factors of 
modern art and science have not fulfilled, and cannot fulfil, 
their callijig. They do not fulfil it, because they have con- 
verted their duty into a right. The scientific and art activi- 
ties, in their true sense, are fruitful only when they ignore 
their rights, and know only their duties. Mankind \alue 


WnAT MUST WE BO THEN? 


203 


this activity so highl}', only because it is a self-denying 
one. 

If men are really called to serve others by mental labor, 
they will have to suffer in performing this iribor, because it 
is only by sufferings that spiritual fruit is produced. Self- 
denying and suffering are the lot and portion of a thinker 
and an artist, because their object is the welfai’e of men. 
Men are wretched : they suffer and go to ruin. One cannot 
wait and lose one’s time. 

A thinker and an artist will never sit on the heights of 
Ol^’mpus, as we are apt to imagine : he must suffer in com- 
pany with men in order to find salvation or consolation. He 
will suffer because he is constantly in anxiety and agitation : 
he might have found out and told what would give happiness 
to men, might have saved them from suffering ; and he has 
neither found it out nor said it, and to-morrow it may be too 
late — he may die. And therefore suffering and self-sacrifice 
will always be the lot of the thinker and the artist. 

Not that man will become a thinker and an artist who 
is brought up in an establishment where learned men and 
artists are created (but, in reality, they create only destroy- 
ers of art and science), and who obtains a diploma, and is 
well provided foi-, for life, but he who would gladly abstain 
from thinking, and expressing that which is ingrafted in his 
soul, but which he cannot overlook, being drawn to it by two 
irresistible powers, — his own inward impulse and the wants 
of men. 

Thinkers and artists cannot be sleek, fat men, enjoying 
themselves, and self-conceited. Spiritual and mental activ- 
ity and their expression, are really necessary for others, and 
are the most difficult of men’s callings, — a cross, as it is 
called in the gospel. 

And the only one certain characteristic of the presence of 
a calling is the self-denying, the saci'ifice of one’s self in 
order to manifest thepower in grafted in man for the benefit 
of others. To teach how many insects there are in the 
world, and observe the spots on the sun, to write novels and 
operas, can bo done without suffering ; but to teach men their 
welfare, which entirely consists in self-denial, and in serving 
others, and to express powerfully this teaching, cannot be 
done without self-denial. 

The Churcii existed in her purity as long as her teachers 
endured patiently and suffered ; but as soon as they became 


204 


WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 


fat and sleek, their teaching activity was ended. “Formerly,’^ 
say the people, “ priests were of gold, and chalices of wood ; 
now chalices are of gold, and priests of wood.” It was not 
in vain that Christ died on a cross : it is not in vain that 
sacrifice and suffering conquer every thing. 

And as for our art and sciences, they are provided for : 
they have diplomas, and everybody is only thinking about 
how to provide still better for them ; that is, to make it im- 
possible for them to serve men. A true art and a true 
science have two unmistakable characteristics, — the first, an 
interior one, that a minister of art or science fulfils his calling, 
not for the sake of gain, but with self-denial ; and the second, 
an exterior one, that his productions are intelligible to all 
men, whose welfare he is aiming at. 

Whatever men may consider to be their destiny and wel- 
fare, science will be the teacher of this destiny and welfare, 
and art the expression of this teaching. The laws of Solon, 
of Confucius, are science ; the teachings of Moses, of Christ, 
are science ; the temples in Athens, the psalms of David, 
church worship, are art : but finding out the fourth dimension 
of matter, and tabulating chemical combinations, and so on, 
have never been, and never will be, science. 

The place of true science is occupied, in our time, by 
theology and law ; the place of true art is occupied b}* the 
church and state ceremonies, in which nobody believes, and 
which are not considered seriousl}^ by anybody : and that 
which with us is called art and science, is only the productions 
of idle minds and feelings which have in view to stimulate 
similarly idle minds and feelings, and which are unintelligible 
and dumb for the people, because they have not their welfare 
in view. 

Since we have known the lives .of men, we always and 
everywhere have found a ruling false doctrine, calling itself 
science, which does not show men the true meaning of life, 
but rather hides it from them. 

So it was among the Egyptians, the Indians, the Chinese, 
and paitially among the Greeks (sophists) ; and among the 
mystics. Gnostics, and cabalists ; in the Middle Ages, in 
theology, scholasticism, alchemy; and so on down to our 
days. How fortunate indeed are we to be living in such a 
peculiar time, when that mental activity which calls itself 
science is not only free from errors, but, as we are assured, 
is in a state of peculiar progress ! Does not this good fortune 


WnAT MUST WE DO THEN f 


205 


come from the fact that man can not and will not see his own 
deformities? While of the sciences of theologians, and that 
of cabalists, nothing is left but empty w'ords, why should we 
be so particularly fortunate? 

The characteristics of our and of former times are quite 
similar : there is the same self-conceit and blind assurance 
that we only are on the true way, and that only with us true 
knowledge begins ; there are the same expectations that we 
shall presently discover something veiy wonderful ; and 
there is the same exposure of our error, in the fact that all 
our wisdom remains with us, while the masses of the people 
do not understand it, and neither accept nor want it. Our 
position is a very difficult one, but why should we not look 
it in the face? 

It is time to come to our senses, and to look more closely 
to ourselves. We are, indeed, nothing but scribes and Phar- 
isees, who, sitting in Moses’ seat, and having the ke}" of the 
kingdom of God, do not enter themselves, and refuse entrance 
to others. 

We, priests of art and science, are most wretched deceivers, 
who have niiich less right to our position than the most 
cunning and depraved priests ever had. 

For our privileged position, there is no excuse whatever: 
w’e have taken u[) this position by a kind of swindling, and 
we retain it by deceit. Pagan priests, the clergy, as well 
Pussinn as Romnn Catholic, however depraved they may 
have been, had rights to their position, because they pro- 
fessed to teach men about life and salvation. And we, who 
have cut the ground from under their feet, and proved to men 
that they were deceivers, we have taken their place, and not 
only do not teach men about life, we even acknowledge that 
there is no necessity for them to learn. We suck the blood 
of the people, and for this we teach our children Greek and 
Latin grammars in order that they also may continue the 
same pai-asitic life which we are living. 

We say. There have been castes, we will abolisli tliem. 
But what" means the fact tliat some men and their children 
work, and other men and their children do not work? 

Bring a Hindu who does not know our language, and 
show him tlie Russian and the Euroi)ean lives of many gener- 
ations, and he will recognize tlie existence of two im[)ortant 
definite castes of working-people and of non-working-people 
as they are in existence in his own country. As in his coun- 


206 


WUAT MUST WE DO THEN? 


tiy, so also among us, the right of not working is acquired 
through a peculiar iuitiatioii which we call art and science, 
and generally educalhm. 

This education it is, and the perversions of reason as- 
sociated with it, that have brought us to this wonderful 
folly, whence it has come to pass that we do not see what is 
so plain and certain. We are eating up the lives of our 
brethren, and consider ourselves to be Christians, humane, 
educated, and quite righteous people. 


XXXVIII. 

What is to be done? }Vhat must we do? 

This question, which includes the acknowledgment of the 
fact that our life is bad and unrighteous, and at the same 
time hints that there is no possibility of changing it, — this 
question I hear everywhere, and therefore I chose it for the 
title of my work. 

I have described my own sufferings, my search, and the 
answer which I have found to this question. 

lama man, like all others; and if I distinguish m3’self 
from an average man of my own circle in aii}^ thing, it is 
chiefly in the fact that I, more than this average man, have 
served and indulged the false teaching of our world, that 
I have been praised by the men of the prevalent school of 
teaching, and that therefore I must be more depraved, and 
have gone farther astray, than most of my fellows. 

Therefore I think that the answer to this question which I 
have found for myself will do for all sincere persons who 
will put the same question to themselves. First of all, to 
the question, “What is to be done?” I answer that we 
must neither deceive other men nor ourselves ; that we must 
not be afraid of the truth, whatever the result may be. 

We all know what it is to deceive other men ; and notwith- 
standing this, we do deceive from morning to evening, — 
“Not at home,” when I am in ; “ Very glad,” when I am 
not at all glad; “Esteemed,” when I do not esteem; “I 
have no money,” when I have it, and so on. 

We consider the deception of others, particularly a cer- 
tain kind of deception, to be evil; but we are not afraid 
to deceive ourselves: but the worst direct lie to men, seeing 
its result, is nothing in comparison with that lie to ourselves 


WUAT MUST WE DO THEN f 


207 


according to which we shape our lives. Now, this very lie 
we mast avoid if we wish to be able to answer the question, 

What is to he done? ” 

And, indeed, how am I to answer the question as to 
what is to be done, when every thing I do, all my life, is 
based upon a lie and I carefully give out this lie for truth 
to others and to myself? Not to lie in this sense means 
to be not afraid of truth ; not to invent excuses, and not to 
accept excuses invented by others, in order to hide from one’s 
self the deduction of reason and conscience ; not to be afraid 
of contradicting all our environment, and of being left alone 
with reason and conscience ; not to be afraid of that con- 
dition to which truth and conscience lead us : however dreadful 
it may be, it cannot be worse than that which is based upon 
deceit. 

To avoid lying, for men in our privileged position of 
mental labor, means not to be afraid of learning. Perhaps 
w’e owe so much that we should never be able to pay it all ; 
but, however much we may owe, we must make out our bill : 
however far we have goue astray, it is better to return than 
to continue straying. 

Lying to our fellows is always disadvantageous. Every 
business is always more directly done, and more quickly too, 
by truth than by lies. Lying to other men makes the mat- 
ter only more complicated, and retards the decision ; but 
lying to one’s self, which is given out to be the truth, entirely 
ruins the life of man. 

If a man considers a wrong road to be a right one, then 
his every step onl}^ leads him farther from his aim : a man 
who has been walking for a long time on a wrong road may 
find out for himself, or be told by others, that his road is a 
wrong one ; but if he, being afraid of the thought of how 
far he has gone astray, tries to assure himself that he may, 
by following this wrong way, still come across the right one, 
then he will certainly never find it. If a man becomes 
afraid of the truth, and, on seeing it, will not acknowledge 
it, but takes falsehood for truUi, then this man will never learn 
what is to be done. 

We, not only rich men, but men in a privileged position, 
so-called educated men, have goue so far astray that we 
require either a linn resolution or very great sufferings on our 
false way in order to come to our senses again, and to recog- 
nize the lie by which we live. 


208 


WIIAT MUST WE DO THEN f 


I became aware of the lie of our life, thanks to those suf- 
ferings to which my wrong road led me ; and, having 
acknowledged the error of the way on which I was bent, I 
had the boldness to go, first in theory, then in reality, 
wherever my reason and conscience led me, without any de- 
liberation as to whither they were tending. 

And 1 was rewarded. 

All tiie coin[)lex, disjointed, intricate, and meaningless 
phenomena of life surrounding me became of a sudden clear ; 
and my position, formerly so strange and vile, among these 
phenomena, became of a sudden natural and eas}'. 

And in this new situation my'activity has exactly deter- 
mined itself, but it is quite a different activity from that 
which appeared possible to me before : it is a new activity, 
far more quiet, affectionate, and joyous. The very thing 
which frightened me before, now attracts me. 

And therefore, I think that every one who sincerely puts 
to himself the question, “What is to be done?” and in 
answering this question, does not lie or deceive himself, but 
goes wherever his reason and conscience may lead him, that 
man has already answered the question. 

If he will only avoid deceiving himself, he will find out 
what to do, where to go, and how to act. There is only one 
thing which may hinder him in finding an answer, — that 
is a too high estimate of himself, and his own position. 
So it was with me; and therefore the second answer to the 
question, “ What is to be done?” resulting from the first, 
consisted for me in repenting, in the full meaning of this 
word, that is, entirely changing the estimate of my own 
position and activity ; instead of considering such to be use- 
ful and of importance, we must come to acknowledge it to 
be harmful and trifling ; instead of considering ourselves 
educated, we must get to see our ignorance ; instead of 
imagining ourselves to be kind and moral, we must acknowl- 
edge that we are immoral and cruel ; instead of our impor- 
tance, we must see our own insignificance. 

1 say, that besides avoiding lying to myself, I had more- 
over to repent^ because, though the one results from the 
other, the wrong idea about my great importance was so 
much a part of my own nature, that until I liad sincerely 
repented, and had put aside that wrong estimate of myself 
which I had, I did not see the enormity of the lie of which I 
had been guilty. 


WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 


209 


It was only when I repented, — that is, left off considering 
myself to be a peculiar man, and began to consider myself 
to be like all other men, — it was then that my way became 
clear to me. Before this, I was not able to answer the ques- 
tion, What is to be done?” because the very question it- 
self was put incorrectly. 

Before 1 repented, I had put the question thus: “AYhat 
activitj’ should 1 choose, I, the man with the education I 
have acquired? How can I compensate by this education 
and these talents for what I have been taking away from the 
people?” 

This question was a false one. because it included a wrong 
idea as to my not being like other men, but a peculiar man, 
called to serve other men with those talents and that educa- 
tion which 1 had acquired in forty years. 

1 had put the question to myself, but in reality I had already 
answered it in adv^ance by having detei mined beforehand the 
kind of activit}’ agreeable to myself by which 1 was called 
upon to serve men. I really asked myself, “ How have 1, 
so fine a writer, one so very well informed, and with such 
talents, how can I utilize them for the benefit of man- 
kind? ” 

But the question ought to have been put thus, as it would 
have to be put to a learned rabbi who had studied all the 
Talmud, and knew the exact number of the letters in the 
Holy Scripture, and all the subtleties of his science : “ What 
have I to do, who, from unlucky circumstances, have lost 
my best years in study instead of accustoming myself to 
labor, in learning the French language, the piano, grammar, 
geography, law, poetry ; in reading novels, romances, philo- 
sophical theories, and in performing military exercises? what 
have I to do, who have passed the best years of my life in 
idle occupations, depraving the soul ? what have I to do, 
notwithstanding these unlucky conditions of the past, in 
order to requite those men, who, during all this time, have 
fed and clothed me, and who still continue to feed and to 
clothe me?” 

Jf the question had been put thus, after \ had repented, 
“ What have 1, so ruined a man, to do?” the answer would 
have l)een easy : First of all, 1 must try to get my living 
honestly, — that is, learn not to live upon the shoulders of 
others ; and while learning this, and after I have learned it, 
to try on every occasion to be of use to men with my hands 


210 


WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 


and with my feet, as well as with my brain and my heart, and 
with all of me that is wanted by men. 

Ami therefore 1 say that for one of my own circle, besides 
avoiding lying to others and to ourselves, it is necessary 
moreover to repent, to lay aside that pride about our edu- 
cation, relinement, and talents, not considering ourselves 
to be benefactors of the peo[)le, advanced men, who are 
ready to share our useful acquirements with the i)eople, but 
to acknowledge ourselves to be entire!}' guilty, ruined, good- 
for-nothing men, wlio desire to turn over a new leaf, and not 
to be benefactors of tlie peo^jlc, but to cease to offend and 
to humiliate them. Very often good young people, who sym- 
pathize with the negative i)art of my writings, put to me the 
question, What must 1 then do? What have 1, who have 
linislied my study in the university or in some other high 
establishment, — what have 1 to do in order to be useful?” 

These young people ask the question ; but in the deipths of 
their souls they have already decided that that education 
which they have received is their great advantage, and that 
they wish to serve the people by this very advantage. 

And, therefore, there is one thing which they do not do, — 
honestly and critically examine what they call their educa- 
tion, by asking themselves whether it is a good or a bad thing. 

But if they do this, they will be unavoidably led to deny 
their education, and to begin to learn anew ; and this is alone 
what is wanted. Tliey never will be able to answer the 
question, as to what there is to be done, because they put it 
wrongly. The question sliould be put thus: “How can 1, 
a hel[)less, useless man, seeing now the misfortune of hav- 
ing lost my best years in studying the scientific Talmud, 
j)ernicious for soul and body, how can I rectify this mistake, 
and learn to serve men?” Ibit the question is always put 
thus: “ IIow can I, who have acquired so much line in- 
formation, how can I be useful to men with this my 
information ? ” 

And, therefore, a man will never answer the question, 
“ What is to be done? ” until he leaves off deceiving himself 
and repents. And repentance is not dreadful, even as truth 
is not dreadful, but it is ecpially benelicent and fruitful of 
good. We nei'd only acceiit the whole truth and fully repent 
in order to understand that in life no one has any riglits or 
lirivileges, and lliat there is no end of duties, and no limits 
to them, and that the first and unquestionable duty of a man 


WHAT MUST WE BO THEN? 


211 


is to take a part in the struggle with iiatui’e for liis own life, 
and for the lives of other men. And this acknowledo'inent 
of men’s duty forms tlie essence of the third answer to the 
question, VVhat is to be done? ” 

1 have tried to avoid deceiving myself. I have endeavored 
to extirpate the remainders of the false estimate of the 
imi)ortaiice of my education and talents, and to repent ; but 
before answering the question, What is to be done? stands 
a new difliculty. 

There are so many things to be done, that one requires to 
know what is to be done in particular? And the answer 
to this question has been given me by the sincere repentance 
of the evil in which I have been living. 

What is to be done? What is there exactly to be done? 
eveiybody keeps asking ; and I, too, kept asking this, while, 
under the influence of a high opinion of my own calling, I 
had not seen that my first and umpiestionable business is to 
earn my living, clothing, heating, building, and so forth, 
and in doing this tu serve others as well as myself, because, 
since the world has existed, the first and unquestionable duty 
of every man has been comprised in this. 

In this one business, man receives, if he has already begun 
to take part in it, the full satisfaction of all the bodily and 
mental wants of his nature: to feed, clothe, take care of 
himself and of his family, will satisfy his bodily wants ; to 
do the same for others, will satisfy Ids spiritual. 

Eveiy other activity of man is only lawfid when these first 
have been satisfied. In whatever department a man thinks 
to be his calling, whether in governing the people, in protect- 
ing his countrymen, in officiating at divine services, in teach- 
ing, in inventing the means of increasing the delights of life, 
in discovering the laws of the universe, in incorporating 
eternal truths in artistic images, the very first and the most 
uiKiuestionable duty of a reasonable man will always consist 
in taking part in the struggle with nature for preserving his 
own life and the lives of other men. 

This duty will always rank first, because the most neces- 
sary thing for men is life : and therefore, in order to protect 
and to teach men, and to make their lives more agreeable, it 
is necessary to keep this very life ; whde by not taking part 
in the struggle, and by swallowing up the lab.or of others, 
lives are destroyed. And it is folly to endeavor to serve 
men by destroying their lives. 


212 


WHAT MUST WE BO THEN? 


Man’s duty to acquire in the struggle with nature the 
means of living, will always be unquestionably the very first 
of all duties, because it is the law of life, the violation of 
which unavoidably brings with it a punishment by destroying 
the bodily or mental life of man. If a man, living alone, 
free himself from the duty of struggling with nature, he will 
at once be punished by his body perishing. 

But if a man free himself from this duty by compelling 
other men to fultil it for him, in ruining their lives, he will be 
at once punished by the destruction of his reasonable life ; 
that is, the life which has a reasonable sense in it. 

1 had been so perverted by my antecedents, and this first 
and unquestionable law of God or nature is so hidden in our 
present world, that the fulfilling of it had seemed to me 
strange, and 1 was afraid and ashamed of it, as if the fulfil- 
ment, and not the violation, of this eternal unquestionable law 
were strange, unnatural, and shameful. At first it seemed to 
me, that, in order to fulfil this law, some sort of accommoda- 
tion was necessary, some established association of fellow- 
thinkers, the consent of the famil^q and life in the country 
(not in town) : then I felt ashamed, as if I were putting 
myself forward in performing things so unusual to our life as 
bodily labor, and 1 did not know how to begin. 

But I needed only to understand that this was not some 
exclusive activity, which I had to invent and to arrange, but 
that it was merely returning from a false condition in which 
I had been to a natural one, merely rectifying that lie in 
which 1 had been living, — I had only to acknowledge all this, 
in order that all the difficulties should vanish. 

It was not at all necessary to arrange and accommodate 
any thing, or to wait for the consent of other people, because 
everywhere, in whatever condition I was, there were men 
who fed, dressed, and warmed me as well as themselves ; and 
everywhere, under all circumstances, 1 was able to do these 
for myself and for them, if I had sufficient time and 
strength. 

Nor could I feel a false shame in performing matters un- 
usual and strange to me, because, in not doing so, I already 
experienced, not a false, but a real, shame. 

And having come to this acknowledgment, and to the prac- 
tical deduction fi-om it, I had been fully rewarded for not 
having been afi aid of the deductions of I’eason, and for having 
gone whither they led me. 


WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 


213 


Having come to this practical conclusion, I was struck by 
the facility and simplicity of the solution of all those problems 
which had formerly seemed to me so difficult and complicated. 
To the question, What have we to do? ” I received a very 
plain answer: Do first what is necessary for yourself; ar- 
range all you can do by yourself, — your tea-urn, stove, water, 
and clothes. 

To the question, “ Would not this seem strange to those 
who had been accustomed to do all this for me?” it ap- 
peared that it was strange only during a week, and after a 
week it seemed more strange for me to return to my former 
condition. 

In answer to the question, “ Is it necessary to organize 
this i)hysical labor, to establish a society in a village upon 
this basis? ” it appeared that it was not at all necessary to do 
all this ; that if the labor does not aim at rendering idleness 
possilfie, and at utilizing other men’s labor, as is the case 
with men who save up mone}^ but merely the satisfying of 
necessities, then such labor will naturall}’ induce peoi)le to 
leave towns for the country, where this labor is most agree- 
able and productive. 

There was also no need to establish a society, because a 
workingman will naturally associate with other working- 
people. In answer to the question, “Would not this labor 
take up all my time, and would it not deprive me of the pos- 
sibility of that mental activity which I am so fond of, and to 
which 1 have become accustomed, and which in moments of 
sclf-conceit I consider to be useful to others?” the answer will 
be quite an uuexi)ected one. In proportion to bodily exercise 
the energy of my mental activity increased, having freed 
itself from all that was superfluous. 

In fact, having spent eight hours in physical labor, — 
half a day, — which formerly I used to spend in endeavor- 
ing to struggle with dulness, there still remained for me 
eight hours, out of which in my circumstances I required five 
for mental labor ; and if I, a very prolific writer, who had 
been doing nothing during forty years but writing, and who 
had written three hundred printed sheets, that if during these 
forty years I had been doing ordinary work along with work- 
ing-people. then, not taking into consideration winter even- 
ings and holidays, if I had been reading and learning during 
the five hours a day, and written only on holidays two i)ages a 
day (and 1 have sometimes written sixteen pages a day), I 


214 


WHAT MUST WE DO THEN f 


should have written the same three hundred printed sheets in 
fourteen years. 

• A wonderful thing, perhaps, but a most simple arithmetical 
calculation which eveiy boy of seven years of age may do, 
and which I had never done. Day and night have together 
twenty-four hours ; we sleep eight hours ; there remain six- 
teen hours. If any man labor mentally five hours a day, he 
will do a vast amouiit of business ; what do we, then, do 
during the remaining eleven hours? 

So it appears that physical labor not only does not exclude 
the possibility of mental activit}^, but improves and stimu- 
lates it. 

In answer to the question whether this physical labor would 
depi’ive me of many innocent enjo^nnents proper to man, 
such as the enjoyment of art, the acquirement of knowledge, 
of social intercourse, and, generally, of the happiness of life, 
it was really quite the reverse : the more intense my physical 
labor was, the more it approached that labor which is con- 
sidered the hardest, that is, agricultural labor, the more I 
acquired enjoymeuts, knowledge, and the closer and more 
alfectiouate was my intercourse with mankind, and the 
more ha[)piness did I feel in life. 

In answer to the question (which I hear so often from men 
who are not quite sincere), “ What result can there be from 
such an awfully small drop in the sea? what is all my per- 
sonal plyysical labor in comparison with the sea of labor 
which I swallow up?” 

To this question I also received a very unexpected 
answ'er. 

It appeared that as soon as I had made physical labor the 
ordinary condition of my life, then at once the greatest part 
of my false and expensive habits and wmnts which 1 had, 
while I had been physically idle, ceased of themselves, with- 
out any endeavor on my part. To say nothing of the habit 
of turning day into night, and vice versa, of my bedding, 
clothes, my conventional cleanliness, which all became im- 
possil)le and embarrassing when I began to labor physically, 
both the quantity and the quality of my food was totally 
changed. Instead of the sweet, rich, delicate, comifiicated, 
and highly spiced food, which I w\as formerly fond of, I now 
required and obtained plain food as the most agreeable, — 
sour cabbage soup, porridge, black bread, tea with a bit of 


WnAT MUST WE DO THEN? 


215 


So that, to say nothing of the example of common work- 
ingmen who aro satisfied with little, with whom I came into 
closer intercourse, 1113' very wants themselves were gradually 
changed by my life of labor ; so that my dro^) of physical 
labor in [)roportion to my growing accustomed to this labor 
and acquiring the wa^^s of it, became indeed more perceptible 
in the ocean of common labor ; and in proportion as my labor 
grew more fruitful, my demands for other men’s labor grew 
less and less, and my life naturall}^ without effort or priva- 
tion, came nearer to that simple life of which I could not 
even have dreamed without fulfilling the law of labor. 

It became apparent that my former most expensive de- 
mands -= — the demands of vanity and amusement — were the 
direct result of an idle life. With physical labor, there was 
no room for vanity, and no need for amusement, because my 
time was agreeably occupied ; and after weariness simj)lerest 
while drinking tea, or reading a book, or conversing with the 
members of mv family, was far more agreeable than the 
theatre, playing at cards, concerts, or large parties. 

In answer to the question, ‘‘ Would not this unusual labor 
be hurtful to my health, which is necessary for me in order 
that I may serve men ? ” it appeared that, in spite of the posi- 
tive assurance of eminent doctors that hard physical labor, 
especially at my age, might have the worst results (and that 
Swedish gymnastics, riding, and other expedients intended 
to supply the natural conditions of man, would be far better), 
the harder I worked, the stronger, sounder, more cheerful, 
and kinder, I felt myself. 

So that it became undoubtedly certain that just as all those 
inventions of the human mind, such as newspapers, theatres, 
concerts, parties, balls, cards, magazines, novels, are nothing 
else than means to sustain the mental life of men out of its 
natural condition of labor for others, in the same way 
all the In^gienic and medical inventions of the human mind 
for the accommodation of food, drink, dwelling, ventilation, 
warming Of rooms, clothes, medicines, mineral waters, gym- 
nastics, electric and other cui'es, are all merely means to 
sustain the bodily life of man out of its natural conditions of 
labor ; that ail these are nothing else than an establishment 
hermetically closed, in which, by the means of chemical ap- 
paratus, the evaporation of water for the plants is arranged 
when you only need to open the window, and do that which 
is natural, not only to men but to beasts too ; in other words, 


216 


WHAT MUST WE HO THEN 7 


having absorbed the food, and thus produced a charge of 
energy, to discharge it by muscular labor. , 

All the profound thoughts of hygiene and of the art of 
healing for the men of our circle are like the efforts of a me- 
chanic, who, having stopped all the valves of an overheated 
engine, should invent something to prevent this engine from 
bursting. 

When I had plainly understood all this, it became to me 
ridiculous, that I, through a long series of doubt, research, and 
much thinking, had arrived at this extraordinaiy truth, that 
if man has eyes, they are to be seen through ; ears, to hear by ; 
feet to walk with, and. hands and back to work with, — and 
that if man will not use these, his members, for what they are 
meant, then it will be worse for him. I came to this conclu- 
sion, that with us, privileged people, the same thing has 
happened which happened to the horses of a friend of mine : 
The steward, who was not fond of horses, and did not 
understand any thing about them, having receised from his 
master orders to pi-epai’e the best cobs for sale, chose the 
best out of the di'ove of horses, and put them into the stable, 
fed them upon oats ; but being over-anxious, he trusted them 
to nobody, neither rode them himself, nor drove nor led them. 

All of these horses became, of course, good for nothing. 

The same has happened to us with this difference, — that 
you cannot deceive horses, an<l, in order not to let them out, 
they must be secured ; and we are kept in unnatural and 
hurtful conditions by all sorts of temptations, which fasten 
and hold us as with chains. 

We have arranged for ourselves a life which is against 
the moral and physical nature of man, and wx use all the 
powers of our mind in order to assure men that this life is 
a real one. All that we call culture, — our science and arts 
for improving the delights of life, — all these are only meant 
to deceive man’s natural requirements : all that 'we call 
hygiene, and the art of healing, are endeavors to deceive 
the natural physical want of human nature. 

But these deceits have their limit, and we are come to 
these limits. “If such be real human life, then it is better 
not to live at all,” says the fashionabie philosophy of 
Scliopenhauer and Hartman. “ If such be life, it is better 
for future generations, too, not to live,” says the indulgent 
healing art, and invents means to destroy women’s fecundity. 

In the Bible the law to human beings is expressed thus : 


WHAT MUST V/E DO THEN? 217 

“In the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread,” and “In 
sorrow thou shalt bring- forth children.” 

The peasant Bondaref, who wrote an article about this, 
threw great light upon the wisdom of this sentence. Dur- 
ing the whole of my life, two thinking men — Russians — 
have exercised a great moral influence over me : they have 
enriched my thoughts, and enlightened my contemplation of 
the world. 

These men were neither poets, nor learned men, nor 
preachers : they were two remarkable men, both living peas- 
ants, — Sutaief and Bondaref. But “ nous avons change 
tout 9a,” as says one of ^loliere’s personages, talking at 
random about the healing art, and saying that the liver is 
on the left side, “ we have changed all that.” Men need 
not work, — all work will be done by machines; and women 
need not bring forth children. The healing art will teach 
different means of avoiding this, and there are already too 
many })eople in the world. 

In the Krapivensky district,^ there lives a ragged peasant 
who during the war was a purchaser of meat for a commis- 
sary of stores. Having become acquainted with this function- 
ary, and iiaving seen his comfortable life, he became mad, 
and now thinks that he, too, can live as gentlemen do, without 
working, being provided for by the Emperor. 

This peasant now calls himself “ the JMost Serene Marshal 
Prince Blokhin, purveyor of war-stores of all kinds.” 

He says of himself that he has gone through all ranks, 
and for his services during the war he has to receive from 
the Emperor an unlimited bank-account, clothes, uniforms, 
horses, carriages, tea. servants, and all kinds of provision. 
When anybody asks him whether he would like to work 
a little, he always answers, “Thanks: the peasants will 
attend to all that.” AVhen we say to him that the peasants 
also may not be disposed to work, he answers, “ iMachines 
have been invented to ease the labor of peasants. They 
have no ditllculty in their business.” When we ask him 
what is he living for, he answers, “ To pass away the time.” 

1 always consider this man as a mirror. 1 see in him 
myself and all 1113^ class. To pass through all ranks in 
order to live, to i)ass awav the time, and to receive an 
unlimited bank-account, wliile peasants attend to every 

* Count Tolstoi’s village of Yasaaya Polyana is situated in this district. — 

Am. Ku. 


218 


WHAT MUST WE BO TTIEN ? 


thing, and find it easy to do so, because of the invention 
of machines. 

This is the very form of the foolish belief of men of our 
class. When we ask what have we particularly to do, we 
are in reality asking nothing, but only asserting — not so 
sincerely indeed as the Most Serene Mai-shal Ifi-ince IMokhin, 
who had passed through all ranks, and lost his mind — that 
we do not wish to do any thing. 

Me who has come to his senses cannot ask this, because 
from one side all that he makes use of has been done, and 
is being done, by the hands of men : on the other side, as 
soon as a healthy man has got up and breakfasted, he feels 
the inclination to work, as well with his feet as with his 
hands and bi-ain. In order to find work, he has only not to 
restrain himself from labor. Only he who considers labor 
to be a shame, like the lady who asked her guest not to 
trouble herself to oi)en the door, but to wait till she called 
a servant to do it, only such persons can ask what is there 
to be done in [)articular. 

The dilficnlty is not in inventing some work, — every one 
has enough to do for himself and for others, — but in losing 
this criminal view of life, that we eat and sleep for our own 
pleasni'c, and in appropriating that simple and correct view 
in which every working-person grows up, that man first of 
all is a machine which is charged with food, in order to 
earn his living, and that therefore it is shameful, difficult, 
and impossible to eat and not to work ; that to eat and not to 
work is a most dangerous state, and as bad as incendiarism. 

It is necessary merel}'' to have this consciousness, and we 
shall find work will always be pleasant, and capable of satis- 
fying all the wants of our soul and body. 

I picture to myself the whole matter thus ; Every man’s 
day is divided by his meals into four parts, or four stages 
as it is called by the peasants: First, before breakfast; 
secondly, from breakfast to dinner; thirdly, from dinner to 
poldnik (a slight evening meal between dinner and supper) ; 
and fourthly, from poldnik to night. The activity of man 
to which he is drawn, is also divided into four kinds: First, 
the activity of the muscles, the labor of the hands, feet, 
shoulders, back, — hard labor by which one perspires; 
secondly, the activity of the fingers and wrists, the activity 
of skill and handicraft ; thirdly, the activity of the intellect 
and imagination ; fourthly, the activity of intercourse with 
other men. 


WHAT MUST WE BO THEN? 


219 


And the goods wliich man makes nse of may also be 
divided into four kinds : First, every man makes use of the 
productions of hard labor, — ])read, cattle, buildings, wells, 
bridges, and so on ; secondly, the productions of handicraft, — 
clotlies, boots, hardware, and so on ; thirdly, the productions 
of mental activity, — science, art; and fourthly, the inter- 
course with men, acquaintanceshi}), societies. 

And I tliought that it would be the best thing so to arrange 
the occupations of the day that one migiit be able to exercise 
all these four faculties, and to return all the four kinds of 
production of labor, which one makes use of; so that the 
four parts of the day were devoted, first, to Inird lal»or; 
secondly, to mental labor; thirdly, to handicraft; fourthly, to 
the intercourse with men. It would be good if one could so 
arrange his labor; but if it is not possible to arrange thus, 
one thing is im})ortant, — to acknowledge the duty of labor- 
ing, the duty of making a good use of each j)art of the day. 

1 thought that it would be only then that the false division 
of labor would disappear which now rules our society, and a 
just division would be established which should not interfere 
with the ha[)piness of mankind. 

I, for instance, have all my life been busy with mental 
work. I had said to myself that I have thus divided the 
labor that my special work is writing; that is, mental labor: 
and all other works necessai-y for me, 1 left to be done by 
other men, or rather compelled them to do it. But this ar- 
rangement, seemingly so convenient for mental labor, became 
most inconvenient, especially for mental labor. I hav'e been 
writing all my life, have accommodated my food, sleep, 
amusements, with reference to this special labor, and besides 
this work I did nothing. 

The results of which were, first, that I had been narrow- 
ing the circle of my observation and information, and often 
I liad not any object to study, and therefore, having had to 
desci'ibe the life of men (the life of men is a continual prob- 
lem of every mental activity), I felt my ignorance, and had to 
learn and to ask about such things, which every one not 
occupied with a special work knows ; secondly, it hai)pened 
that when I sat down to write, I often had no inward inclina- 
tion to write, and nobody wanted mv writing itself, that is, 
my thoughts, but people merely wanted my name for profits 
in the magazines. 

I made great efforts to write what I could ; sometimes I 


220 


WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 


did not succeed at all ; sometimes succeeded in writing some- 
thing veiT bad, and 1 felt dissatisfied and dull. But now 
since I have acknowledged the necessity of physical labor as 
well as hard labor, and also that of handicraft, it is all quite 
ditferent : my time is occupied humbly, but certainly in a use- 
ful way, und pleasantly and instructive!}' for me. 

And therefore I, for the sake of my specialty, leave off 
this undoubtedly useful and pleasant occupation, only when I 
feel an inward want, or see a direct demand for my literary 
work. And this has improved the quality, and therefore the 
usefulness and pleasantness, of my special labor. 

So that it has happened that my occupation with those 
physical works, which are necessary for me as well as for 
every man, not only did not interfere with my special ac- 
tivity, but was a necessary condition of the utility, quality, 
and pleasantness of this activity. 

A bird is so created that it is necessary for it to fly, to 
walk, to peck, to consider ; and when it does all this, it is 
satitied and happy ; then it is a bird. Exactly so with a man 
when he walks, turns over heavy things, lifts them up, carries 
them, works with his fingers, eyes, ears, tongue, brain, then 
only is he satisfied, then only is he a man. 

A man who has come to recognize his calling to labor will 
naturally be inclined to that change of labor which is proper 
for him for the satisfying of his outward and inward wants, 
and he will reverse this order only when he feels an irresist- 
ible impulse to some special labor, and other men will require 
from him this labor. The nature of labor is such that the 
satisfying of all men’s wants requires that very alternation 
of different kinds of labor which renders labor easy and 
pleasant. 

Only the erroneous idea that labor is a curse could lead 
men to the freeing themselves from some kinds of labor, that 
is, to the seizure of other men’s labor which requires a forced 
occupation with a special labor from other men which is 
called nowadays the division of labor. 

We have become so accustomed to our false conception of 
the arrangement of labor that it seems to us that for a boot- 
maker, a machinist, a writer, a musician, it would be better 
to be freed from the labor proper to man. Where there is 
no violence over other men’s labor, nor a false belief in the 
pleasures of idleness, no man for the sake of his si)ecial labor 
will free himself from physical labor necessary for the satis- 


WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 


221 


lying of his wants, bocanse special occupation is not a ])rivi- 
legc, but a sacritice of a man’s inclination for the sake of his 
brethren. 

A boot-maker in a village having torn himself from his 
usual })leasant labor in the Held, and liaving begun his labor 
of mending or making boots for his neighbors, deprives him- 
self of a pleasant, useful labor in the Held for the sake of 
others, only because he is fond of sewing, and knows that 
nobody will do it better than he does, and that people will be 
thankfid to him. 

But he cannot wish to deprive himself for all his life of 
the i^leasant alternation of labor. The same with the sta- 
rosta, the machinist, the writer, the learned man. 

It is only to us with our perverted ideas, that it seems, 
when the master sends his clerk to be a peasant, or 
government sentences one of its ministers to deportation, 
that they are punished and have been dealt with hardly. 
But in reality they have had a great good done to them ; that 
is, they have exchanged their heavy special work for a pleas- 
ant alternation of labor. 

In a natural societ\^ all is quite different. I know a com- 
mune where the people earn their living themselves. One of 
the members of this community was more educated than the 
rest ; and they required him to deliver lectures, for which he 
had to prepare himself during the day, in order to be able to 
deliver them in the evening. He did it joyfully, feeling that 
he was useful to others, and that he could do it well. But 
he got tired of the exclusive mental labor, and his health suf- 
fei’ed accordingly. The members of the community therefore 
pitied him, and asked him to come again and labor in the 
field. 

P^or men who consider labor to be the essential thing and 
the joy of life, the ground, the basis, of it will always be 
the struggle with nature, — not only agricultural labor, but 
also that of handicraft, mental work, and intercourse with 
men. 

The divergence from one or many of these kinds of labor, 
and specialties of labor, will be performed only when a 
man of si)ecial gifts, being fond of this work, and knowing 
that he performs it better than anybody else, will sacrifice 
his own advantage in order to fulfil the demands of others 
put directly to him. 

Only with such a view of labor and the natural division of 


222 


WHAT MUST iri: BO THEN? 


lilbor resulting from it, will the curse disappear which we 
ill our iiiiagiiiation have i)ut upon labor; and eveiT labor will 
always l^e a joy, because man will do either an uiupiestion- 
ably useful, i)leasant, and easy work, or will be conscious 
that he makes a sacrifice in performing a more difficult spe- 
cial labor foi’ the good of others. 

But the division of labor is, it is said, more advantcageous. 
Advantageous f(jr whom? Is it more advantageous to make 
as quickly as [)ossible as many boots and cotton-prints as 
possible? But who will make these boots and cotton-prints? 
j\Ien who from generation to generation have been making 
only pin-heads? How, then, can it be more advantageous for 
people? If the question were to make as many cotton-prints 
and [)ins as possible, it would be so ; but the question is, 
how to make people hai)py? 

The happiness of men consists in life. And life is in 
labor. 

How, then, can the necessity of a painful, oppressing work 
be advantageous for meu? If the question were only for 
the advantage of some men without any consideration of the 
welfare of all, then it would be most advantageous for some 
men to eat others. 

The thing most advantageous for all men is that which I 
wish for myself, — the greatest welfaj-e and the satisfying of 
all my wants, those of l)ody as well as those of soul, of con- 
science, and of reason, which are ingrafted in me. 

And now, for myself 1 have found, that for my welfare 
and for the satisfying of these wants, I need only to be cured 
of the folly in which I, as well as the Krapivensky madman, 
have lived, which consisted in the idea that gentlefolk need 
not work, and that all must be done for them by others, and 
that, producing nothing, I have to do only what is proper to 
man, — satisfy my own wants. 

And having discovered this, I became persuaded that this 
labor for the satisfying of my own wants, is divisible into 
various kinds of labor, each of which has its own charm, 
and is not only not a burden, but serves as rest after some 
other. 

1 have divided my labor into four parts parallel to the four 
parts of the laborer’s day’s work, which are divided by his 
meals ; and thus I try to satisfy my wants. 

These are, then, the answers to the question, “ What is to 
be done? ' which 1 have found for myself. 


WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 


223 


Firsts To avoid deceiving myself. However far I have 
gone astray from that road of life which my reason shows to 
me, 1 must not be afi’aid of the truth. 

Secondbj^ To renounce my own righteousness, my own 
advantages, peculiarities, distinguishing me from others, and 
to confess tlie guilt of such. 

Thirdly^ To fullil that eternal, unquestionable law of man, 
— by laboring with all my being to struggle with nature, to 
sustain my own life, and the lives. of others. 


I HAVE now finished, having said all that concerns myself ; 
but I cannot restrain my desire to say that which concerns 
every one, and to verify bj’ several considerations my own 
deductions. 

1 wish to explain why it is I think that a great many of 
my own class must arrive where I m 3 ’self am, and I must 
also speak of what will result if even some few men arrive 
there ; and in the first place, if onlj' men of our circle, our 
caste, will seriously think the matter out themselves, the 
younger generation, who seek their own personal hap[)iness, 
will become afraid of the ever-increasing misery of lives 
which obviously lead them to ruin ; scrupulous persons 
among us (if they would examine themselves more closely) 
will be terrified at the cruelty and unlawfulness of their own 
lives, and timid persons will be frightened at the danger of 
their mode of life. 

The misery of our lives! However we, rich men, may try 
to mend and to support, with the assistance of our science 
and art, this our false life, it must become weaker eveiy 
day, unhealthier, and more and more painful : with each year 
suicide, and the sin against the unborn babe, increase ; with 
each year the new generations of onr class grow weaker, 
with each year we more and more feel the increasing dulness 
of our lives. 

It is obvious that on this road, with an increase of the 
comforts and delights of life, of cures, artificial teeth and 
hair, and so on, there can be no salvation. 

This truth has become such a truism, that in newspapers 
advertisements are printed about stomach powder for rich 
people, under the title '' Blessijigs of the poor,” where they 


224 


WUAT MUST WE BO THEN? 


say that only poor people have a good digestion, and the 
rich need help, and among other things tliis powder. You 
cannot ameliorate this matter by any kind of amusements, 
comforts, powders, but only by turning over a new leaf. 

Our Uvea are in contradiction to our conscioices. However 
much we may try to justify to ourselves our treason ngainst 
mankind, all our justitication falls to pieces before evidence : 
around us, people are dying from overwork and want ; and 
w'e destroy the food, clothes, labor of men merely in order 
to amuse ourselves. And therefore the conscience of a man 
of our circle, though he may have but a small remainder of 
it in his breast, cannot be stifled, and poisons all these com- 
forts and charms of life which our suffering and perishing 
brethren procure for us. But not only does eveiy scrupu- 
lous man feel this himself, but he must feel it more acutely 
at present, because the best part of art and science, that 
part in which there still remains a sense of its high calling, 
constantly reminds him of his cruelty, and the unlawfulness 
of his position. 

The old secure justifications are all destroyed ; and the 
new ephemeral justifications of the progress of science for 
science’s sake, and art for art’s sake, will not bear the light 
of plain common sense. 

The conscience of men cannot be calmed b}' new ideas : 
it can be calmed only by turning over a new leaf, when 
there will no longer be any necessit}^ for justification. 

The dauger to our lives! However much we may tiy to 
hide from ourselves the plain and most obvious danger of 
exhausting the patience of those men whom we oppress ; 
however much we ma}’ try to counteract this danger by all 
sorts of deceit, violence and flattery, — it is still growing with 
each day, with each hour, and it has long been threatening 
us, but now it is so ri[)e tliat we are scarcely able to hold 
our course in a vessel tossed by a roaring and overflowing 
sea, — a sea which will presentl}" swallow us u]) in wrath. 

The workman’s revolution, with the terrors of destruction 
and murder, not only threatens us, but we have been already 
living upon its verge during the last thirty years, and it is 
only by various cunning devices that we have been postpon- 
ing the crisis. 

Such is the state in Europe : such is the state in Russia, 
because we have no safety-valves. The classes who oppress 
the i)eople, with the exception of the Tsar, have no longer 


WHAT MUST WE DO TUENf 


225 


in the eyes of our people an}^ justification ; they all keep up 
their position merely hy violence, cuiiniug, and expediency ; 
but the hatred towards us of the worst rei)reseiitatives of 
the [)eople, and the contempt of us from the best, is iucreas- 
ing with every hour. 

Among the Russian people during the last three or four 
3 ’ears, a new word full of signilicance has been circulating : 
bv this word, which 1 never heard before, people are swear- 
ing in the streets, and calling us parasites. 

The hatred and contempt of the oppressed people are 
increasing, and the physical and moral strength of the richer 
classes are decreasing : the deceit which supports all this 
is wearing out, and the rich classes have nothing wherewith 
to comfort themselves. To return to the old order of things 
is impossible: one thing only remains for those who are 
not willing to change the course of theii- lives, and to turn 
over a new leaf, — to hope that, during their lives, they will 
fare well enough, after which the people mav do as they 
like. ■ So think the blind crowd of the rich ; but the danger 
is ever increasing, and the awful catastrophe is coming nearer 
and nearer. 

There are three reasons which prove to rich people the 
necessity of turning over a new leaf : First, the desire for 
their own personal welfare and that of their families, which 
is not secui'ed by the way in which rich people are living ; 
secondly, the inability to satisf}^ the voice of conscience, 
which is obviously impossible in the present condition of 
things; and thirdly, the threatening and constantly increas- 
ing danger to life, which cannot be met by any outward 
means. All these together ought to induce rich people to 
change their mode of life. This change alone would satisfy 
the (lesire of welfare and conscience, and would remove tiie 
danger. And there is but one means of making such change, 
— to leave off deceiving ourselves, to repent, and to acknowl- 
edge labor to be, not a curse, but the joyful business of life. 

To this it is replied, “ What will come from the fact of 
my physical labor during ten, eight, or five hours, which 
thousands of peasants would gladl^^ do for the money which 
I have?” 

Tlie first good would be, that you will become livelier, 
healthier, sounder, kinder; and you will lenrn that real life 
from which you have been hiding yourself, or which was 
hidden from you. * 


226 


WUAT MUST WE BO THEN? 


The second good will be, that, if you have a conscience, 
it will not only not suffer as it suffers now looking at the 
labor of men, the importance of which we always, from our 
ignorance, either increase or diminish, but you will constantly 
experience a joyful acknowledgment that with each day 
you are more and more satisfying the demands of your con- 
science, and are leaving behind you that awful state in 
which so much evil is accumulated in our lives that we feel 
that we cannot possibly do any good in the w'orld ; you will 
experience the joy of free life, with the possibility of doing 
good to others ; you will open for yourself a way into the 
regions of the world of morality which has hitherto been 
shut to you. 

The third good will be this, that, instead of constant fear 
of revenge for your evil deeds, you will feel that you are 
saving others from this revenge, and are principally saving 
the oppressed from the cruel feeling of rancor and resent- 
ment. 

But it is usuall}’ said, that it would be ridiculous If we, 
men of our stamp, with deep philosophical, scientific, politi- 
cal, artistic, ecclesiastical, social questions before us, we 
state ministers, senators, academists, professors, artists, 
singers, we whose quarter-hours are valued so highly by men, 
should spend our time in doing — what? Cleaning our boots, 
w’ashing our shirts, digging, planting potatoes, or feeding 
our chickens and cows, and so on, — in such business which 
not only our house-porter, our cook, but thousands of men 
besides who value our time, would be very glad to do for us. 

But why do we dress, wash, and comb our hair ourselves? 
Why do we walk, hand chairs to ladies, to our guests, open 
and shut the door, help people into carriages, and perform 
hundreds of such actions which were formerly performed for 
us hy our slaves? 

Because we consider tliat such may be done by ourselves ; 
that it is compatible with humnn dignity ; tluit is, human 
duty. The same holds good with physical labor. Mnn’s 
dignity, his sacred duty, is to use his hands, his feet, for that 
purpose for which they were given him, and not to be wasted 
by disuse, not that he may wash and clean them and use 
them only for the purpose of stuffing food and cigarettes 
into his month. 

Such is the meaning of physical labor for every mnn in 
every society. But in our class, with the divergence from 


WnAT ]>^IUST WE DO THEN? 


227 


this law of nature came the misery of a whole circle of men ; 
and for us, physical labor receives another meaning, — the 
meaning of a preaching and a propaganda which divert the 
terrible evil which threatens mankind. 

To say that for an educated man, physical labor is a use- 
less occupation, is the same as to say, in the building of a 
temple, AVhat importance can there be in putting each stone 
^exactly in its place? Every great act is done under the 
conditions of imperceptibility, modesty, and simplicity. One 
can neither plough, nor feed cattle, nor think, during a great 
illumination, or thundering of guns, or while in uniform. 

Jllumination, the roar of cannon, music, uniforms, clean- 
liness, brilliancy, which we usually connect with the idea of 
the importance of any act, are, on the contrary, tokens of 
the absence of importance in the same. Great, true deeds 
are always simple and modest. And such is also the 
greatest deed which is left to us to do, — the solution of 
those awful contradictions in which we are living. And the 
acts which solve those contradictions are those modest, im- 
perceptible, seemingly ridiculous acts, such as helping our- 
selves by physical labor, and, if [)OSsible, helping others 
too : this is what we rich people have to do, if we under- 
stand the miseiy, wrong, and danger of the position in which 
we are living. 

What will come out of the circumstance that I, and another, 
and a third, and a tenth man, do not despise physical labor, 
but consider it necessary for our hap[)iness, for the calming 
of our consciences, and for our safety? This will come of 
it, — that one, two, three, ten men, coming into conflict with 
no one, without the violence either of the government or of 
revolution, will solve for themselves the problem which is 
before all the world, and wdiich has appeared insolvable ; and 
they wdll solve it in such a way that life will become for them 
a good thing: their consciences wdll be calm, and the evil 
which oppresses them will cease to be dreadful to them. 

Another effect will be this: that other men, too, will see 
that the w'clfare, wdiich they have been looking for every- 
where. is quite close by them, that seemingly insolvable con- 
tradictions of conscience and the order of the world are 
solved in the easiest and pleasantest way, and that, instead 
of being afraid of men surrounding them, they must have 
intercourse with them, and love them. 

The seemingly insolvable economical and social questions 


228 


WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 


are like the problem of Krilof’s casket. The casket opened 
of itself, without any dilliculty : but it will not open until 
men do the very simplest and most natural thing; that is, 
open it. The seemingly iusolvable question is the old (question 
of utilizing some men’s labor b}' others : this question, in 
our time, has found its expression in property. 

Formerly, other men’s labor was used simply by violence, 
by slavery : in our time, it is being done b}' the means of 
pro})erty. In our time, property is the root of all evil and 
of the sufferings of men who possess it, or are without it, 
and of all the remorse of conscience of those who misuse it, 
and of the danger from the collision between those who have 
it, and those who have it not. 

Property is tlie root of all evil ; and, at the same time, 
property is that towards which all the activity of our modern 
society is dii’ected, and that which directs the activit}^ of the 
world. States and governments intrigue, make wars, for 
the sake of property, for the possession of the banks of the 
lihine, of land in Africa, China, the Balkan Peninsula. 
Bankers, merchants, manufacturers, land-owners, labor, use 
cunning, torment themselves, torment others, for the sake of 
property ; government functionaries, tradesmen, landlords, 
struggle, deceive, oppress, suffer, for the sake of property ; 
courts of justice and police protect property ; penal servi- 
tude, prisons, all the terrors of so-called punishments, — 
all is done for the sake of property. 

Property is the root of all evil ; and now all the world is 
busy with the distribution and protecting of wealth. 

What, then, is property? Men are accustomed to think 
that property is something really belonging to man, and for 
this reason they have called it property. We speak indis- 
criminately of our own house and our own land. But this 
is obviously an error and a superstition. We know, and if 
we do not, it is easy to perceive, that property is only the 
means of utilizing other men’s labor. And another’s labor 
can by no means belong to me. 

JMan has been always calling his own that which is subject 
to his own will and joined with his own consciousness. As 
soon as man calls his own something which is not his body, 
but which he should like to be subject to his will as his body 
is, then he makes a mistake, and gets disappointment, suffer- 
ing, and compels other people to suffer as well. Man calls 
his wife his own, his children, his slaves, his belongings, his 


WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 


229 


own too ; but the reality always shows him his error : and he 
must either get rid of this superstition, or suft’er, and make 
others sutfer. 

Now we, having nominally renounced the possessing of 
slaves, owing to money (and to its exactment by the govern- 
ment), claim our right also to money ; that is, to the labor of 
other men. 

But as to our claiming our wives as our property, or our 
sons, our slaves, our horses, — this is pure fiction contradicted 
by realiU’^ and which only makes those suffer who believe in 
it ; because a wife or a son will never be so subject to my will 
as my body is ; therefore my own body will always remain 
the only thing I can call my true property ; so also money, — 
property will never be real property, but only a deception and 
a source of suffering, and it is only my own body which will 
be my property, that whicli always obeys me, and is connected 
with my consciousness. 

It is only to us, who are so accustomed to call other things 
than our body our own, that such a wild superstition may ap- 
pear useful for us, and be without evil results ; but we have 
only to reflect upon the nature of the matter in order to see 
how this, like every other superstition, brings with it only 
dreadful consequences. 

Let us take the most simple examjfie. I consider myself 
my own, and another man like myself I consider my own too. 
I must understand how to cook my dinner : if I were free 
from the superstition of considering another man as my prop- 
erty, I should have been taught this art as well as every other 
necessary to my real property (that is, my body) ; but now 
I have it taught to my imaginary property, and the result is 
that my cook does not obey me, does not wish to humor me, 
and even runs away from me, or dies, and I remain with an 
unsatisfied want, and have lost the habit of learning, and 
recognize that I have spent as much time in cares about this 
cook as 1 should have spent in learning the art of cooking 
myself. 

The same is the case with the property of buildings, clothes, 
wares ; with the property of the land ; with the i)roperty of 
money. Every imaginary property calls forth in me a non- 
co]-responding want which cannot always be gratified, and 
deprives me of the possibility of acquiring for my true and 
sure property — my own bod}" — that information, that skill, 
those habits, improvements, which 1 might have acquired. 


230 


WHAT MUST WE DO THEN f 


The result is always that I have spent (without gain to 
myself, — to my true property) strength, sometimes my 
whole life, on that wiiicii never has been, and never could 
be, my property. 

1 provide myself with an imaginary “private” library, a 
“ private” picture-gallery, “private” apartments, clothes; 
acquire my “ own ” money in order to purchase with it every 
thing I want, and the matter stands thus, — that I, being 
busy about this imaginary property, as if it w^ere i*eal, leave 
quite out of sight that which is my true property, upon w inch 
I may really labor, and which really may serve me, and 
which always remains in 1113’ powder. 

Words have always a definite meaning until we purposely 
give them a false signification. 

What does property mean? 

Property means that wliich is given to me alone, wiiich 
belongs to me alone, exclusively ; that w ith which I may 
always do evei^ thing I like, which uobod}’ can take awniy 
from me, which remains mine to the end of my life, and that 
I ought to use in order to increase and to improve it. Such 
property for eveiy man is only himself. 

And it is in this very sense that imaginarv property is un- 
derstood, that very propertv for the sake of which (in order 
to make it im})ossible for this imaginary property to become 
areal one) all the sufferings of this world exist, — wars, 
executions, judgments, [jrisons, luxury, depravity, murders, 
and the ruin of mankind. 

What, then, will come out of the circumstance that ten men 
plough, hew wood, make boots, not from want, but from the 
acknowledgment that man needs work, and that the more he 
works, the better it will be for him ? 

This will come out of it : that ten men, or even one single 
man, in thought and in deed, will show men that this fearful 
evil from wdiich the}^ are suffering, is not the law of their 
destiny, nor the will of God, nor any historical necessity, but 
a superstition not at all a strong or overpowering one, but 
weak and null, in which it is onl3\necessaiy to leave off be- 
lieving, as in idols, in order to get rid of it, and to destro}- it 
as a frail cobw^eb is swept aw^ay. 

Men who begin to work in order to fulfil the pleasant law 
of theii* lives, who work for the fullilment of the law of labor, 
will free themselves from the sui)erstition of propeity which 
is so full uf misery, and then all these worldly establishments 


WUAT MUST WE BO THEN? 


231 


which exist in order to protect this imaginary property out- 
side of one’s own body, will become not only unnecessary 
for them, but burdensome ; and it will become jdain to all 
that these institutions are not necessary, but pernicious, 
imaginary, and false conditions of life. 

Fora man who considers labor not a curse, but a joy, prop- 
erl}' outside his own body — that is, the right or i)ossil)ility 
of utilizing other men’s labor — will be not only useless, but 
an impediment. If I am fond of cooking my dinner, and 
accustomed to do it, then the fact that another man will 
do it for me, will deprive me of my usual business, and 
will not satisfy me as well as I have satislied myself ; be- 
sides, the acquirement of an imaginary property will not 
be necessary for such a man : a man who considers labor 
to be his very life, fills up witli it all his life, and there- 
fore requires less and less the lal)or of others, — in other 
words, propert}’ in order to fill up his unoccupied time, and 
to embellish his life. 

If the life of a man is occupied by labor, he does not 
require many rooms, much furniture, various fine clothes : 
he does not require expensiv^e food, carriages, amusements. 
But particularly a man who considers labor to be the busi- 
ness and the joy of his life, will not seek to ease his own 
labor by utilizing that of others. 

A man wdio considers life to consist in labor, in propor- 
tion as he acquires more skill, craft, and endurance, will aim 
at having more and more work to do, which should occui)y 
all his time. For such a man, who sees the object of his 
life in labor, and not in the results of this labor for the 
acquirement of property, there cannot be even a question 
about the instruments of labor. Though such a man will 
always choose the most productive instrument of labor, 
he will have the same satisfaction in working with the most 
unproductive. 

if he has a steam-plough, he will plough with it; if he 
has not such, he will plough with a horse-plough ; if he has 
not this, he will plough with the plain Kussian sokha ; if 
he has not even this, he will use a spade : and under any 
circumstances, he will attain his aim ; that is, will pass his 
life in a labor useful to man, and therefore he will have 
fullest satisfaction : and the position of such a man, accord- 
ing to exteiior and inteiior circumstances, will be happier 
than the condition of a man who gives his life away to 
acquire property. 


282 


WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 


According to exterior circumstances, he will never want,' 
because men, seeing that he does not mind work, will alwa^'s 
try to make his labor most productive to them, as they 
arrange a mill by running water; and in order that his 
labor might be more productive, they will provide for his 
material existence, which the}' will never do for men who 
aim at acquiring property. 

And the [)roviding for material wants, is all that a man 
requires. According to interior conditions, such a man will 
be always ha[)pier than he who seeks for property, because 
the latter will never receive what he is aiming at, and the 
former always in proportion to his strength : even the weak, 
old, dying (according to the proverb, with a Kored in his 
hands), will receive full satisfaction, and the love and sym- 
pathy of men. 

One of the consequences of this will be, that some odd, 
half-insane persons will plough, make boots, and so on, 
instead of smoking, playing cards, and riding about, carry- 
ing with them, from one place to another, their dulness 
during the ten hours which every man of letters has at his 
command. 

Another result will be, that those silly people will demon- 
strate in deed, that that imaginary property for the sake of 
which men suffer, torment themselves and others, is not 
necessary for happiness, and even impedes it, and is only 
a superstition ; and that true property is only one’s own 
head, hands, feet ; and that, in order to utilize this true 
property usefully and joyfully, it is necessary to get rid of 
the false idea of property outside one’s own body, on which 
we waste the best powers of our life. 

Another result will be, that these men will show, that, 
when a man leaves off believing in imaginary property, 
then only will he make real use of his true property, — his 
own body, which will yield him fruit an hundred-fold, and 
such happiness of which we have no idea as yet ; and he 
will be a useful, strong, kind man, who will everywhere 
stand on his own feet, will always be a brother to every- 
body, will be intelligible to all, desired by all, and dear 
to all. 

And men, looking at one, at ten such, silly men will 
understand what they have all to do in order to undo that 
dreadful knot in which they have all been tied by the super- 
stition respecting property, in order to get rid of the miser- 


WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 233 

able coiiclition from which they are groaning now, and from 
which they do not know how to free themselves. 

But what can a man do in a crowd who do not agree with 
him? There is no reasoning which could more obviously 
demonstrate the unrighteousness of those who employ it as 
does this. The boatmen are dragging vessels against the 
stream. Is it possible that there could be found such a 
stupid boatman who would refuse to do his part in drag- 
ging, because he alone cannot drag the boat up against the 
sti-eam ? He who, besides his rights of animal life, — to 
eat and to sleep, — acknowledges any human dut^^ knows 
very well wherein such duty consists: just in the same way 
as a boatman knows that he has only to get into his breast- 
collar, and to walk in the given direction, to find out what he 
has to do, and how to do it. 

And so with the boatmen, and with all men who do any 
labor in common, so with the labor of all mankind; each 
man need only keep on his breast-collar, and go in the given 
direction. And for this purpose one and the same reason 
is given to all men that this direction may alwa3^s be the 
same. 

And that this direction is given to us, is obvious and cer- 
tain fi'orn the lives of all those who surround us, as well as in 
the conscience of every man, and in all the previous expres- 
sions of human wisdom ; so that only he who does not want 
work, may say that he does not see it. 

What will, then, come out of this? 

This, that first one man, then another, will drag; looking 
at them, a third will join ; and so one by one the best men 
will join, until the business will be set a-going, and will 
move as of itself, inducing those also to join who do not 
yet understand why and wherefore it is being done. 

First, to the number of men who conscientiously work in 
order to fulfil the law of God, will be added those who will 
accept half conscientiously and half upon faith ; then to these 
a still greater number of men, only upon the faith in the fore- 
most men ; and lastly the majority of people : and then it will 
come to pass that men will cease to ruin themselves, and 
will tind out happiness. 

This will happen soon when men of onr circle, and after 
them all the great majority of working-people, will no longer 
consider it shameful to clean sewers, but will consider it 
shameful to lill them up in order that other men, our brethren, 


234 


WHAT MUST WE DO THEN f 


may carry their contents away ; the}’ will not consider it 
shameful to go visiting in common boots, but they will con- 
sider it shameful to walk in goloshes by barefooted people ; 
they will not think it shameful not to know French, or about 
the last novel, but they will consider it shameful to eat bread, 
and not to know how it is prepared ; they will not consider 
it shameful not to have a starched shirt or a clean dress, but 
that it is shameful to wear a clean coat as a token of one’s 
idleness ; they will not consider it shameful to have dirty 
hands, but not to have callouses on their hands. 

Within my memory, still more striking changes have taken 
place. I remember that at table, behind each chair, a ser- 
vant stood with a plate. Men made visits accompanied by 
two footmen. A Cossack boy and a girl stood in a room to 
give people their pipes, and to clean them, and so on. Now 
this seems to us strange and remarkable. But is it not 
equally strange that a young man or woman, or even an 
elderly man, in order to visit a friend, should order his horses 
to be harnessed, and that well-fed horses are only kept for 
this purpose? Is it not as strange that one man lives in five 
rooms, or that a woman spends tens, hundreds, thousands of 
rubles for her dress when she only needs some flax and wool 
in order to spin dresses for herself, and clothes for her hus- 
band and children ? 

Is it not strange that men live doing nothing, riding to and 
fro, smoking and playing, and that a battalion of people are 
busy feeding and warming them ? 

Is it not strange that old people quite gravely talk and 
write in newspapers about theatres, music, and other insane 
people drive to look at musicians or actors? 

Is it not strange that tens of thousands of boys and girls 
are brought up so as to make tliein unfit for every work 
(they return home from school, and their two books are 
carried for them by a servant) ? 

There will soon come a time, and it is already drawing near, 
when it will be shameful to dine on five courses served by 
footmen, and cooked by any but the masters themselves ; it 
will be shameful not only to ride thoroughbreds or in a coach 
when one has feet to walk on ; to wear on week-days such 
dress, shoes, gloves, in which it is impossible to work ; it 
will be sliamehil to play on a piano which costs one hundred 
and fifty pounds, or e\en ten pounds, while others work for 
one ; to feed dogs upon milk and white bread, and to burn 


WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 


235 


lamps and candles without working by their light ; to heat 
stoves in which the meal is not cooked. Then it would be 
impossible to think about giving openl}' not merely one 
pound, but six pence, for a place in a concert or in a theatre. 
All this will be when the law of labor becomes public opinion. 


XL. 

As it is said in the Bible, there is a law given unto man 
and woman, — to man, the law of labor; to woman, the 
law of child-bearing. Although with our science, 7wus 
avons change tout (;a” the law of man as well as of woman 
remains as immutable as the liver in its place ; and the breach 
of it is as inevitably punished by death. The only difference 
is, that for man, the breach of law is punished by death in 
such a near future that it can almost be called present ; 
but for woman, the breach of law is punished in a more 
distant future. 

A general breach, by all men, of the law, destroys men 
immediately : the breach b}' women destroys the men of the 
following generation. The evasion of the law b}" a few 
men and women does not destroy the human race, but de- 
prives the offender of rational human nature. 

The breach of this law by men began years ago in the 
classes which could use violence with others ; and, spreading 
on its way, it has reached our day, and has now attained 
madness, the ideal contained in a breach of the law, the 
ideal expressed by Prince Blokhin, and shared by Renan 
and the whole educated world : work will be done by 
machines, and men will be bundles of nerves enjoying them- 
selves. 

There has been scarcely any breach of the law^ by women. 
It has only manifested itself in prostitution, and in private 
cases of crime in destroying progeny. Women of the 
wealthy classes have fulfilled their law, while men did not 
fulfil theirs ; and therefore women have grown stronger, and 
have continued to govern, and will govern, men, who have 
deviated from their law, and who, consequently, have lost 
their reason. It is generally said that women (the women of 
Pai’is, esi)ecially those who are childless) have become so 
bewitching, using ull the means of civilization, that they have 
mastered man by their charms. 


• 236 


WHAT MUST WE BO THEN? 


This is not onh" wrong, but it is just the reverse of the 
truth. It is not the childless woman who has mastered man, 
but it is the mother, the one who has fuUilled her duty, while 
man has not fulfilled his. 

As to the woman who artificially remains childless, and 
bewitches man by her shoulders and curls, she is not a 
woman, mastering man, but a w^oman corrupted by him, 
reduced to his level, to the corrupted man, and who, as well 
as he, has deviated fi-om her duty, and who, as well as he, 
has lost every reasonable sense of life. 

This mistake produces also the astounding nonsense which 
is called “ woman’s rights.” The formula of these rights 
is as follows : — 

“ You men,” says woman, “ have deviated from your law 
of true labor, and want us to cany the load of ours. No : 
if so, we also, as well as you, will make a pretence of labor, 
as you do in banks, ministries, universities, and academies ; 
we wish, as well as you, b}^ the pretence of division of 
work, to profit by other people’s work, and to live, only to 
satisfy our lust.” They say so, and in deed show that they 
can make that pretence of labor, not at all worse, but even 
better, than men do it. 

The so-called question of woman’s rights arose, and only 
could arise, among men who had deviated from the law of 
real labor. One has only to return to it, and that question 
must cease to exist. A woman who has her own particular, 
inevitable labor will never claim the right of sharing man’s 
labor, — in mines, or in ploughing fields. She claims a 
share only in the sham labor of the wealthy classes. 

The woman of our class was stronger than man, and is 
now still stronger, not through her charms, not through her' 
skill in performing the same pharisaic siinilitude of work as 
man, but because she has not stepped outside of the law ; 
because she has borne that true labor with danger of life, 
with uttermost effort ; true labor, from which the man of the. 
wealthy classes has freed himself. 

But within my memory has begun also the deviation from 
the law b}" woman, — that is to say, her fall ; and within my 
memory, it has proceeded farther and farther. A woman 
who has lost the law, believes that her power consists in tbe 
charms of her witchery, or in her skill at a pharisaic pre- 
tence of intellectual labor. But children hinder the one and 
the other. Therefore, with the help of science, within my 


WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 


237 


memory it has come to pass that among the wealth}' classes, 
scores of means of destroying progeny have appeared. 
And behold, — women, mothers, some of them of the vvealtliy 
classes, who held their power in their hands, let it slip away, 
only to place themselves on a level with women of the street. 
The evil has spread far, and spreads farther every day, and 
will soon grasp all the women of the wealthy classes ; and 
then they will become even with men, and together with 
them will lose every reasonable sense of life, lint there is 
yet time. 

If only women would understand their worth, their power, 
and would use them for the work of salvation of their 
husbands, brothers, and children ! the salvation of all men ! 

Women, mothers of the wealthy classes, the salvation of 
men of our world from the evils fi’om which it sutfers, is in 
your hands ! 

Not those women who are occupied by their figures, 
bustles, head-dri’sses, and their charms for men, and who, 
contrary to their will, by oversight and with despair, bear 
children, and then give their childi-en to wet-nurses; nor yet 
those who go to different lectures, and talk of psN'chometrical 
centres ami differentiation, and who also try to free them- 
selves from bearing children in order not to hinder their folly, 
which they call development, — but those women and 
mothers who, having the power of freeing themselves from 
child-bearing, hold strictly and consciously to that eternal, 
immutable law, knowing that the weight and labor of that 
submission is the aim of their life. These women and 
mothers of our wealthy classes are those in whose hands, 
more than in any others, lies the salvation of the men of our 
sphere in life, from the calamities which oppress them. 

You women and mothers who submit consciously to the* 
law of God, you are the only ones who, in our miserable, 
mutilated world, which has lost all semblance of humanity, 
-you are the only ones who know the whole true meaning of 
life according to the law of God ; and you aie tlie only ones 
who, b}" your example, can show men the hai)piness of that 
submission to God’s law, of which they rob themselves. 

You are the only ones wlio know the joy and happiness 
which takes possession of one’s wliole being ; the bliss which 
is the share of every man who does not deviate from God’s 
law. You know the j<>y of love to your husband, — a joy 
never ending, never destroyed, like all other joys, but form- 


238 


WnAT MUST WE DO THEN? 


ing the beginning of another new joy — love to your child. 
You are the onl\ ones, when you are simple and submissive 
to God’s law, who know, not the farcical i)reteuce of labor, 
which men of your world call labor, but that true labor which 
is imposed by God upon men, and know the rewards for it, — 
the bliss which it gives. 

You know it when, after the joys of love, you expect with 
emotion, fear, and hope, the torturing state of pregnancy, 
which makes you ill for nine months, and brings you to the 
brink of death and to unbearable sufferings and pains : you 
know the conditions of true labor, when with joy you expect 
the approach and increase of the most dreadful sufferings, 
after which comes the bliss, known to you only. 

You know it when, dii*ectly after those sufferings, without 
rest, without interruption, you undertake another series of 
labors and sufferings, — those of nursing; for the sake of 
which you subjugate to your feeling, and renounce, the strong- 
est human necessity, — that of sleep, which, according to the 
saying, is sweeter than father and mother. And for months 
and years you do not sleep two nights running, and often you 
do not sleep whole nights ; walking alone to and fro, rocking 
in your wearied arms an ailing baby, whose sufferings tear 
your heart. And when you do all this, unapproved and unseen 
by anybody, not expecting any praise or reward for it ; when 
you do this, not as a great deed, but as the laborer of the gos- 
pel parable, who came from the field, considering that you are 
only doing your dut3^ — you know then what is false, fictitious 
labor, — for human fame ; and what is true labor, — the fulfil- 
ment of God’s will, the indication of which you feel in your 
heart. You know, if you are a true mother, that not only 
nobody has seen and praised j'our labor, considering that it is 
onl}" what ought to be, but even those for whom you toiled are 
not only ungrateful to you, but often torment and reproach 
you. And with the next child you do the same, — again you 
suffer, again you bear unseen,. terrible toil, and again you do 
not expect any reward from anybody, and feel the same 
satisfaction. 

If you are such, you will not say, after two or after twenty 
children, that you have borne children enough; as a fifty- 
3’ear-old workman will not say that he has worked enough, 
when he still eats and sleeps, and his muscles demand work. 
If you are such, you will not cast the trouble of nursing and 
care on a strange mother, any more than a workman will give 


WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 


239 


the work which he has begun, and neai-ly finished, to another 
man, because in that work you put your life, and because, the 
more you have of that work, the fuller and happier is your 
life. 

But when you are like this, — and there are yet sucli women, 
happily for men, — the same law of fullilment of God’s will, 
by which you guide your own life, you will a^ipl}^ also to the 
life of your husband, of your children, and of men near to 
you. If you are such, and if you know by exiierience that 
only self-denied, unseen, unrewarded. labor with danger of 
life, and uttermost effort for the life of others, is that mission 
of man which gives satisfaction, you will claim the same 
from others, you will encoui-age your husband to do the 
same labor, you will value and appi-eciate the worth of men 
by tliis same labor, and for it you will prepare your children. 

Only that mother who looks on child-bearing as a . dis- 
agreeable accident, and upon the pleasures of love, comfort, 
education, sociabilit}’, as the sense of life, will bring up her 
children so that they shall have as many pleasures, and enjoy 
them as much, as possible ; will feed them luxuriously, dress 
them smartly, will artihcially divert them, and will teach them, 
not that which will make them capable of self-sacrificing 
man’s and woman’s labor with danger of life and uttermost 
effort, but that which will deliver them from that labor. 
Only such a woman, who has lost the sense of her life, will 
sympathize with that false, sham man’s labor, by means of 
which her husband, freeing himself from man’s duty, has the 
possibility of profiting, together with her, by the labor of 
others. Only such a woman will choose a similar husband 
for her daughter, and value men, not by what they are in 
themselves, but by what is attached to them, — position, 
money, the art of [)rofiting by the labor of others. 

A true mother, who really knows God’s law, will prepare 
her children for the fulfilment of it. For such a mother to 
see her child overfed, delicate, overdi’essed, will be a suffer- 
ing, because all this, she knows, will hinder it in the fulfilment 
of God’s law, ex[)erienced by herself. Such a woman will 
not teach that which will give her son or daughter t4ie possi- 
bility of delivering themselves from labor, but that which 
will help them to bear the labor of life. 

She will not want to ask wliat to teach her children, or for 
what to prepare them, knowing what it is and in what con- 
sists the mission of men, and consequently knowing what 


240 


WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 


to teaeli lier children, and for what to prepare them. Such 
a woman will not only discourage her husband from false, 
sham labor, the only aim of which is to profit b}’ other 
people’s work, but will view with disgust and dread an 
activity that will serve as a double temptation for her chil- 
dren. Snell a woman will not choose her daughter’s husband 
according to the whiteness of his hands, and the refinement 
of his manners, but, knowing thoroughly what is lalior and 
what deceit, will always and everywhere, beginning with her 
husband, respect and appreciate men, will claim from them 
true labor with waste and danger of life, and will scorn that 
false, sham labor which has for its aim the delivering of 
one’s self from true labor. 

Such a mother will bring forth and nurse her children her- 
self^ and, above all things else, will feed and provide for 
them, will work for them, wash and teach them, will sleep 
and talk with them, because she makes that her life-work. 
Only such a mother will not seek for her children external secu- 
rity through her husband’s money, or her children’s diplomas, 
but she will exercise in them the same capacity of self-sac- 
rificing fulfilment of God’s will which she knows in herself, 
tlie capacit}' for bearing labor with waste and danger of life, 
because she knows that only in that lie the security and wel- 
fare of life. Such a mother will not have to ask others what 
is her duty : she will know every thing beforehand, and will 
fear nothing. 

If there can be doubts for a man or for a childless woman 
about the way to fulfil God’s will, for a mother that way 
is firmly and clearly drawn ; and if she fulfils it humbly, with 
a simple heart, standing on the highest point of good, which 
it is only given to a human being to attain, she becomes the 
guiding-star for all men, tending to the same good. Only a 
mother before her death can sa}’ to Him who sent her into 
this world, and to Him whom she has served by bearing and 
bringing up children, beloved by her more than herself, — 
only she can peacefully say, after having served Him in her 
ap[)ointed service, — 

‘‘ ‘ Now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace.’ ” 

And this is that highest perfection, to which, as to the 
highest good, men aspire. 

Such women, who fulfil their mission, are those who reiofn 
over reigning men ; those who prepare new generations of 


WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 


241 


men, and form public opinion : and therefore in the hands of 
these women lies the highest power of men's salvation from 
the existing and threatening evils of our time. 

Yes, women, mothers, in your hands, more than in those 
of any others, lies the salvation of the world ! 


242 


WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 


NOTE TO CHAPTER XL. 

The vocation of every man and woman is to serve other people. 
With this general proposition, I think all who are not immoral 
people will agree. The difference between men and women in the 
fulfilment of that vocation, is only in the means by which they 
attain it ; that is to say, by which they serve men. 

Man serves others by physical work, — procuring food ; by intel- 
lectual work, — studying the laws of nature in order to master it ; 
and by social work, — instituting forms of life, and establishing 
mutual relations between people. 

The means of serving others are various for men. The whole 
activity of mankind, with the exception of bearing children and 
rearing them, is open for his service to men. A woman, in addition 
to the possibility of serving men by all the means open to man, by 
the construction of her body is called, and is inevitably attracted, 
to serve others by that which alone is excepted from the domain of 
the service of man. 

The service of mankind is divided into two parts, — one, the aug- 
mentation of the welfare of mankind; the other, the continuation 
of the race. Men are called chiefly to the first, as they are deprived 
of the possibility of fulfilling the second. Women are called 
exclusively to the second, as they only are fitted for it. This 
difference one should not, one can not, forget or destroy ; and it 
would be sinful to do so. From this difference proceed the duties 
of each, — duties not invented by men, but which are in the nature 
of things. From the same difference proceeds the estimation of 
virtue and vice for woman and man, — the estimation which has 
existed in every century, which exists now, and which will never 
cease to exist while in men reason exists. 

It always has been, and it always will be, the case, that a man 
who spends a great part of his life in the various physical and 
mental labors which are natural to him, and a woman who spends 
a great part of her life in the labor of bearing, nursing, and rear- 
ing children, which is her exclusive prerogative, will equally feel 
that they are doing their duty, and will equally rise in the esteem 
and love of other people, because they both fulfil that which is 
appointed to them hy their nature. 

The vocation of man is broader and more varied ; the vocation 
of woman more uniform and narrower, but more profound : and 
therefore it has always been, and always will be, the case, that man, 
having hundreds of duties, will be neither a bad nor a pernicious 


WHAT MUST WE HO THEN f 


243 


man, even when he has been false to one or ten out of them, if 
he fulfils the greater part of his vocation ; while woman, as she has 
a smaller number of duties, if she is false to one of them, instantly 
falls lower than a man, w^ho has been false to ten out of his 
hundreds of duties. Such has always been the general opinion, 
and such it will always remain, — because such is the substance of 
the matter. 

A man, in order to fulfil God’s will, must serve him in the 
domain of physical work, thought and morality : in all these ways 
he can fulfil his vocation. Woman’s service to God consists 
chiefly and almost exclusively in bearing children (because no one 
except herself can render it). Only by means of work, is man 
called to serve God and his fellow-men : only by means of her 
children, is a woman called to serve them. 

And therefore, love to her own children which is inborn in 
wmman, that exclusive love against which it is quite vain to strive 
by reasoning, will always be, and ought to be, natural to a woman 
and a mother. That love to a child in its infancy is not egotism, 
but it is the love of a workman for the work which he is doing 
while it is in his hands. Take away that love for the object of 
one’s work, and the work becomes impossible. While I am making 
a boot, I love it above every thing. If I did not love it, I could 
not work at it. If anybody spoils it for me, I am in despair; but 
I only love it thus while I am working at it. When it is com- 
pleted, there remains an attachment, a preference, which is weak 
and illegitimate. 

It is the same with a mother. A man is called to serve others 
by multifarious labors, and he loves those labors while he is 
accomplishing them. A woman is called to serve others by her 
children, and she cannot help loving those children of hers while 
she is rearing them to the age of three, seven, or ten years. 

In the general vocation of serving God and others, man and 
woman are entirely equal, notwithstanding the difference of the 
form of that service. The equality consists in the equal impor- 
tance of one service and of the other, — that the one is impossible 
without the other, that the one depends upon the other, and that for 
efficient service, as well for man as for woman, the knowledge of 
truth is equally necessary. 

Without this knowledge, the activity of man and woman becomes 
not useful but pernicious for mankind. Man is called to fulfil his 
multifarious labor; but his labor is only useful, and his physical, 
mental, and social labor is only fruitful, when it is fulfilled in the 
name of truth and the welfare of others. 

A man can occupy himself as zealously as he will to increase his 
pleasures by vain reasoning and with social activity for his own 
advantage : his labor will not be fruitful. It will only be so when 
it is directed towards lessening the suffering of others from want 
and ignorance and from false social organization. 

The same with woman’s vocation : her bearing, nursing, and 


244 


WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 


bringing up children will only be useful to mankind when she not 
only gives birth to children for her own pleasure, but when she 
prepares future servants of mankind ; when the education of those 
children is done in the name of truth and for the welfare of 
others, — that is to say, when she will educate her children in such 
a manner that they shall be the very best men possible, and the 
very best laborers for others. 

The ideal woman, in my opinion, is the one who, appropriating 
the highest view of life of the time in which she lives, yet gives 
herself to her feminine mission, which is irresistibly placed in her, — 
that of bringing forth, nursing and educating, the greatest possible 
number of children, fitted to work for people according to the view 
which she has of life. 

But in order to appropriate the highest view of life, I think 
there is no need of visiting lectures : all that she requires is to read 
the gospel, and not to shut her eyes, ears, and, most of all, her 
heart. 

Well, and if you ask what those are to do who have no children, 
who are not married, or are widows, I answer that those will do 
well to share man’s multifarious labor. But one cannot help 
being sorry that such a precious tool as -woman is, should be 
bereft of the possibility of fulfilling the great vocation which it is 
proper to her alone to fulfil. 

Especially as every woman, when she has finished bearing chil- 
dren, if she has strength left, will have the time to occupy herself 
with that help in man’s labor. Woman’s help in that labor is very 
precious ; but it will always be a pity to see a young woman fit for 
child-bearing, and occupied by man’s labor. 

To see such a woman, is the same as to see precious vegetable 
soil covered with stones for a place of parade or for a walking- 
ground. Still more a pity, because this earth could only produce 
bread, and a woman could produce that for which there cannot be 
any equivalent, higher than which there is nothing, — man. And 
only she is able to do this. 


THE END. 




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